


Had We But World Enough And Time

by ClydeThistles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Daemons, Dyslexia, F/F, First Crush, First Meetings, Fluff, Gyptian!Yennefer, His Dark Materials AU, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Immortality, Mutual Pining, Puberty, Witch!Tissaia, Yennaia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26313112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClydeThistles/pseuds/ClydeThistles
Summary: Little Yennefer gets lost in the snow, witch-queen Tissaia finds her and guides her back home. They meet several times in the years that follow.Inspired by @Eileniessa's moodboard on Tumblr.
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 91
Kudos: 193





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eileniessa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eileniessa/gifts).



> Daegan and Leus' names are both Gaelic words meaning 'dark-one' and 'beacon' (specifically, a flame lit to guide travellers).
> 
> @Kat_Jaq has done some beautiful artwork to go with chapter 2 & 4 - links at top of each chapter!

Yennefer shivers and Daegan changes into a big cat with sleek black fur that she doesn’t recognise but decides she likes when he wraps his warm body round her.

“We’re lost aren’t we, Yenna?”

“No!” She scoffs at him, sounding much braver than she feels. “We just need to find that dead tree and then it’s a straight line from there to the camp.”

“We’re going to be in trouble when we do get back. They told us not to wander off.”

Yennefer tosses her black curls, or she would if they weren’t encased in the fur-lined hood of her parka. The wind is howling, stirring the powdery top-layer of snow, and Yennefer knows it will be blowing away their footprints from earlier. But now that she is almost ten, she’s not scared of anything, so there! She nods emphatically to herself to reinforce this stubbornness and sets off decisively.

“Come on, Daegan. It’s this way.”

Daegan pads along beside her, shielding her from the wind with his body, slitting his eyes against the sting of it. They walk until even Yennefer begins to worry and pauses, scanning the horizon hopefully for the tree or the flicker of a campfire. Nothing. And then she sees a shape, something black, floating towards them. Daegan lashes his tail and snarls, Yennefer pulls out the little bone-handled knife she stole from one of the older Gyptian boys and points it at the shape.

“Stay away or I’ll kill you! You don’t frighten me!”

The shape lands and comes closer and Yennefer sees it is a woman, dark-haired and sharp-boned, wearing nothing but floaty black silk and a circlet of small, white shells on her head. A spray of cloud-pine rests on the ground at her feet and she holds a bow with a nasty-looking arrow knocked and trained on Yennefer.

“Drop your weapon, _Duanna,_ I mean you no harm.”

Yennefer scowls and jabs the knife towards her, “You drop yours then!”

Daegan echoes her ferocity with a low rumble and flexes his claws, snarling when something grey floats towards him. He hisses and swipes at it with his paws, opens his mouth to snarl again but stops abruptly mid-snarl when a speckled eagle-owl lands on his snout. He sneezes in surprise and peers down his nose at the bird watching him with large orange eyes. Yennefer brandishes her knife again but only half-heartedly, Daegan has calmed and seems to be in some sort of trance, gazing with fascination at what Yennefer assumes is the woman’s daemon. The woman has stayed silent and unmoving as their daemons interact and Yennefer tries to toss her curls again but only succeeds in shaking her hood over her eyes. When she manages to re-emerge from it, she thinks she sees the woman biting back a smile, amusement dancing in her ice-blue eyes. Yennefer scowls again but forgets to be cross because Daegan suddenly settles onto his haunches and then lowers his head to rest on his front paws, completely at ease with the owl still perched on his nose and hooting softly.

“Trust your daemon, it knows what you cannot see. I repeat, I mean you no harm.” The woman slackens her grip on the arrow and carefully lays the bow on the ground, “See?”

Yennefer lowers her knife and sticks it in the snow, handle pointing up so she can grab it quickly if need be. She blinks against the wind, trying to get a better look at the woman,

“Are you a witch?”

“That is your word for my people, yes. You are far from your waterways, _Duanna_ , what brings a Gyptian girl this far North?”

“What’s that word? You keep calling me doo-, doonnanna.”

A subtle smile curls at the corner of the woman’s mouth and she comes close enough to lift a tendril of Yennefer’s hair, running it through her pale, slim fingers, “ _Duanna_ in our tongue is ‘little black-haired maiden’.”

Yennefer juts her chin out defiantly, “I’m _not_ little! I’m almost ten! And my proper name is Yennefer.”

The woman places her finger under Yennefer’s chin and looks at her with such intensity Yennefer is certain she can see her thoughts, “Do not be in such a hurry to grow old, little one, time will chase you soon enough. And, when it catches you, you will remember this day.”

Yennefer blinks uncertainly, a little awed and more than a little confused. The woman smiles softly again and releases her chin, “But now is not the time for such thoughts. Come, you have a path to find and I can show you to it.”

“I’m not meant to follow strangers.”

“And you always do as you are told? I find that hard to believe.”

Yennefer grins guiltily but insists, “You know my name, what’s yours?”

“I am Tissaia de Vries, of the Keitele Clan. Does that satisfy you?”

Yennefer nods and turns her attention to their daemons who have been holding their own conversation while Tissaia and Yennefer talk. She can’t help blushing, feeling ridiculous as she realises Daegan is being an utter fool. He is sprawled on his back, his belly on show, wriggling playfully as the owl stares at him impassively. Getting no reaction from the bird, he leaps up and prances round it, even reaching out to bat at it with his paw but with the utmost care, anxious not to hurt it. Just as he crouches down behind it, wriggling his haunches to pounce playfully, the owl ruffles its feathers and proceeds to rotate its head almost full circle to fix him with its gaze. He splutters in awe,

“Yenna, her head, she can see _behind_ her!”

Yennefer turns to Tissaia, “Your daemon is female?”

“She is.” Tissaia holds out her arm and the owl flutters over to land gracefully on it, “This is Leus.”

Leus inclines her head and, sure enough, a warm, soft voice emerges from her beak, not high-pitched but unmistakeably female, “I am glad to know you, Yennefer.”

Daegan comes over to curl round Yennefer, still a little breathless from his antics, “We should go, they’ll be worried.”

Tissaia nods, “Come, it is not far.”

As they walk, Yennefer cannot help her curiosity and digs, even though she suspects it is rude to do so, “Is Leus female because you’re a witch?”

Leus answers, “No. Most witches have male daemons, just like human women do. But there are some humans with daemons the same gender as themselves.”

“I’ve never met anyone like that before.”

Tissaia’s mouth curls in that little smile briefly before she replies, “There are more of us than you’d think.”

Yennefer ponders this for a moment and then asks her next question. This time it is Daegan who droops his whiskers apologetically at her prying but neither Tissaia nor Leus seem to mind, content to answer her inquisitive chattering with quiet dignified responses, indulging her curiosity with good grace. Yennefer points at Tissaia’s bare arms and feet,

“Aren’t you cold?”

“I feel the cold, but it does not trouble me. And I would endure it even if it did, there are touches worth suffering for.” Tissaia laughs softly at Yennefer’s frown who is clearly unsatisfied with this cryptic answer. The witch elaborates, “We are closer here to the sky, to the stars, the Aurora, than anywhere else. Witches choose to bare their skin so we may feel these forces.”

Yennefer rolls up the bulky sleeve of her parka with some difficulty and holds her forearm out experimentally. All she gets is pebbled skin and a painful nipping and she grumbles, “It just feels cold.”

She wrestles with her sleeve but her mittens make it hard and Tissaia reaches down to roll it back for her, tucking the cuff into her mitten to ensure she is snug, “Warmth is not a sensation to dismiss lightly, _Duanna_ , do not wish for what is out of your reach only to loose sight of what you already have.”

Yennefer opens her mouth to retort but Leus hushes her, “Look, there are your fires. Go home.”

Daegan and Yennefer step towards the flickering glow but when they turn to say thank you and farewell, the owl and the witch have vanished. Tissaia nearly drops her invisibility when she sees the yearning on the Gyptian girl’s face, but she forces herself to concentrate on being inconspicuous and at last, Yennefer turns and walks away to her campfires. Leus blinks at her,

“You are right to make them forget us.”

Tissaia sighs, “I know.” However, this knowledge does not keep her from watching them a little longer before squaring her shoulders resolutely and retrieving her cloud-pine.

As they reach the Gyptian camp, Daegan mewls forlornly at Yennefer,

“Will we ever see them again, Yenna?”

Yennefer sighs and cuddles into his neck, “I hope so...”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later...  
> Yennefer returns to the North and looks for Tissaia.

[Chapter Two - Fanart](https://sentientpinkfrosting.tumblr.com/post/633383067850031104/a-present-for-duanna-ever-since-i-read-chapter-2)

Yennefer stamps her feet to warm them and blows on her hands. There is a horrid sick feeling in her stomach as it churns painfully. Despite the cold she’s sweating, and her heart is pounding so loudly, she can hear it thudding in her ears. Daegan is anxiously flitting between shapes, a hummingbird, a spaniel, a squirrel, a grizzly bear. Although she knows he is only mirroring her own emotions, Yennefer can’t help snapping at him,

“Will you _stop_ that? Just pick one!”

He glowers at her reproachfully and changes into a salmon, flopping pitifully on the snow and gasping for air. Yennefer clutches her chest and shouts at him,

“Don’t be such an idiot! Change back, now, I-” She pauses to drag oxygen into her lungs, feeling his distress as acutely though she were underwater, “Daegan, please…”

The silvery scales turn into the fur of an Arctic fox and both Daegan and Yennefer can breathe again, chests heaving and eyes flitting nervously away from one another. He paws the ground anxiously,

“I’m sorry, Yenna. I don’t know what got into me. That was stupid.”

“What’s the matter with us? I feel like I’m about to rip apart at the seams.”

Daegan sits back on his haunches miserably, “I don’t know… I feel like I have to decide what to be rather than just being whatever I fancy… and then I start to panic that I won’t choose the right shape and we’ll settle and be stuck in the wrong skin so I change again and again and again.”

Yennefer crouches down beside him and wraps her arms round his neck, “Maybe that’s what’s wrong… maybe it’s time to settle, maybe not having a clear idea of who we are isn’t fun anymore…”

“Is that what growing up is? Picking someone to be for always rather than pretending something new every day?”

Yennefer sighs, “Maybe…” She looks around, little hillocks and scrubby pines the only thing breaking up the snowy stretch around them. “She’s not coming, is she?”

Daegan licks her hand comfortingly, “Maybe she didn’t hear us.”

And, just in case their earlier shouts hadn’t carried far enough, he raises his muzzle and does a little yip-yowl. The only answer is his echo and Yennefer scowls,

“Stupid idea anyway! Why would we want to see some cranky old witch?”

Daegan tilts his head at her, “Don’t be nasty. How would she even know we were here?”

Yennefer tosses her curls (having taken her hood down first, she’s learnt that lesson at least) “She’s a witch, she knows things.”

Her daemon raises his foxy eyebrows knowingly and Yennefer’s bravado fades, “I wanted to see her… I-, I miss her. Is that strange? To miss someone we met five years ago for only a few moments?”

Daegan nudges her gently with his wet nose, black like coal against his white fur, “Go on, leave it for her. She might find it. And there’s no point in carrying it all the way back again.”

Yennefer reaches into her parka and pulls out the horse-conch shell they’d found last year when the narrowboats went all the way down to the estuary, ocean waves crashing against the painted sterns. The shell is white, big enough to take up her whole hand, its tines all intact and the spiral whorl up to its point perfectly symmetrical. She’d scraped out whatever dead creature had once called it home, cleaned and oiled it until it shone. Now though, against the snow it looks dirty and pock marked. Still, there’s no point in lugging it around so Yennefer carefully sets it on the ground and (trying not to feel too foolish) addresses the empty air,

“We wanted to give you this, we thought of you when we saw it. I-…” She scuffs the ground with her boot, scowling and blushing, “I still think about you…”

She scoffs at herself and is about to turn and stomp away when Daegan turns into a large snowy owl with bright yellow eyes. He has surprised himself as much as her and examines a wing as he holds it out. This is a new shape. And although Leus is an eagle owl, Yennefer can’t help feeling like it is Tissaia’s daemon staring at her. Daegan urges her,

“You should say it, Yenna. I think it’s why I look like her.”

Yennefer clears her throat and awkwardly tugs a hand through her hair, “I think… I think I’m in love with you.” 

* * * *

Tissaia had heard them calling her, she wouldn’t be surprised if the entire North had heard Yennefer’s bellowing. She’d known the Gyptians were coming, they’d sent word to ask permission to cross her lands, hoping to trade with the harbour towns. But she’d not been expecting Yennefer to be among them or for her to be standing in the snow shouting Tissaia’s name. Tissaia had mustered the concentration required to become inconspicuous, unseen even to the Gyptian girl relentlessly scanning the horizon for her. Thus cloaked, she had come close enough to watch them. Daegan fluttering back and forth, flashing between forms and Yennefer looking ill with unease. Tissaia has seen this before, if she thinks hard enough, she can even remember when she herself was in such commotion. She is surprised it has taken this long, fifteen is comparatively old to still have a shifting daemon. It will not last much longer, Yennefer is bursting with life, with the thrill of coming to know oneself, Tissaia can practically see it pouring out of her. And Daegan’s shifting is frantic and clumsy rather than the effortless fluidity of childhood. The witch watches with alarm as he suffocates himself on purpose, Yennefer clawing at her chest with the pain of him slipping away. Leus flutters a little, preparing to swoop in and intervene. But he shifts back and the two of them ease with one another again as they are meant to. Tissaia has also seen what happens when a person and their daemon are at odds, the antagonism and revulsion pulling them apart until they die or split. And she would not wish it on anyone, least of all this girl who has some strange hold on her.

Then the girl’s daemon starts howling mournfully and Tissaia fights the urge to clamp her hands over her ears. Leus blinks impassively as she always does but she cannot hide her distress from Tissaia, not when it is a reflection of the turmoil within the witch’s own chest. Calming herself with several deep breaths, Tissaia reinforces her invisibility that had wavered slightly. She watches Yennefer produce something from within her parka and lay it on the ground, hears her stumbling explanation. Then breathes easier as Yennefer turns to go only to stifle a gasp as Daegan turns into an owl. Leus’ claws tighten painfully on Tissaia’s forearm who trembles with the effort of remaining unseen. This cannot be, this must not be. Daegan will settle soon but it should not be as this. Tissaia has seen what happens when a person’s daemon chooses its shape to please another, when it decides that it is only whole if it can be an imitation of someone else. There is a reason why daemons settle as young adolescents, when Dust has awoken oneself but before any serious romantic attachments are likely to be formed. Because a settling is about discovering your identity and accepting it _before_ becoming entangled with another’s body and soul.

“I think… I think I’m in love with you.”

_No, no, no! Don’t be, do not fixate on what you cannot have. Look within, Duanna!_

Tissaia urges silently, torn with indecision. If she appears and interacts, it will only fuel the girl’s infatuation. If she does nothing and Daegan settles, then she will have allowed it to happen. Yennefer makes the decision for her, turning and walking away, Daegan flying beside her. Tissaia drops her shield and paces agitatedly,

“Now what do we do? They should have forgotten us years ago!”

“You saw her daemon, they didn’t forget. They’re in love.”

Tissaia scoffs, “What does a girl of fifteen summers know of love?”

Leus chides her, throwing her a sharp look, “More than you can remember of it.”

Tissaia flushes angrily. Witches take lovers, Tissaia has done so in the past. But it has been years, decades, since she allowed herself to be entangled. It never ends well, time chases and humans run so much slower than witches, being caught before they’ve even started to live. And perhaps her isolation _has_ made her cold, calculating, logical and unfeeling. But that is still no reason for her own daemon to point it out so bluntly. And Yennefer is a child, this is nothing more than a silly crush and Tissaia intends to nip it in the bud. So, stalking ahead, letting some distance grow between her and Leus, she makes her way to the Gyptian camp as dusk approaches.

It is dark and the fires burning low when Tissaia tiptoes into the tent Yennefer shares with several others, all sleeping soundly. She frowns when she sees Daegan is still the owl, his head under his wing. Yennefer’s bed-fur has twisted and rucked. She is clothed under it, but the cold is bitter so Tissaia carefully adjusts the blankets until the girl is covered again. With the lightest of touches, Tissaia smooths some hair from Yennefer’s forehead, murmuring softly when Yennefer shifts,

“Sleep, _Duanna,_ there is nothing here to wake for. All you need is within you, do not seek it elsewhere, I beg you.”

Leus nudges her, tilting her head at Daegan who is shimmering. Tissaia steps back to a respectful distance, she has never seen a daemon settle before, but she knows it is something to be treated with reverence. To her relief, the snowy bird vanishes. And with an elegant unfurling amidst a gentle glow, his shape ripples and flows before solidifying, becoming warm and dark and real. Tissaia has seen many things in her long life but nothing so beautiful as watching Daegan settle. And she has to smile because she recognises him. The black jaguar she had first met him as is curled up asleep in front of her, a little sleeker and more muscular than last time, not quite so cuddly around his face as before. Leus quivers with delight beside her and Tissaia strokes a finger over her head,

“Come, we have done what was needed.”

She stands but the owl lingers for a moment longer gazing at the two sleeping forms. Tissaia insists gently, “Leus, they do not need us any longer.”

Leus flutters up and perches on Tissaia’s shoulder, nibbling at her earlobe, “They want us though.”

Tissaia strokes Leus’ chest with a forefinger as they leave the camp, “I know. It is for the best that they learn not to.”

* * * *

Yennefer wakes, feeling a solid warmth stretched out beside her and something sticky between her legs. She pulls back the furs in alarm and sees blood spotting her bedroll. Her belly clenches and there is a headache brewing behind her eyes. This is it then. Her life is now split into moon-cycles, her body painful but powerful. She glances at Daegan who is still asleep and feels comforted. She has not seen the black cat since that night in the snow all those years ago, but she likes this shape, and it feels right. Warm and calm rather than the simultaneous frantic heat and empty cold that the owl had made her feel. She gently shakes him awake and he yawns, flashing sharp teeth and a pink tongue.

“I think it’s happened, Daegan. We feel right.”

He stands and lowers his forehead to rest against hers, “This is us, Yenna. We’re us.”

Yennefer finds the linen clouts that she’d been shown earlier and the willow-bark that tastes awful but eases the pain. Daegan looks away politely as she cleans herself but curls round her when she is dressed, licking with a rough tongue at her wrist. The camp wakens and soon they are dismantling, preparing to move on. At the last minute, Yennefer decides to run and collect the conch shell. It will fetch a decent price in some inland markets, and it seems silly to leave it here for a witch that may never find it. But when she reaches the spot, it is gone. And in its place, held there by magic she assumes as the wind should have blown it away, is a large feather, brown with black speckles and a white tip. Yennefer waits for Daegan to pick it up in his mouth, unsure what the etiquette is for touching what used to be part of someone else’s daemon. He holds it out though and drops it into her open palm,

“They wouldn’t have left it if they didn’t want you to touch it.”

Yennefer runs her finger along the neat arching vane, the downy after-fluff and the hard rachis and shaft. It feels just like any other feather and she tells herself it is all in her imagination when her fingertip tingles. She tucks it inside her parka and lays a hand on Daegan’s head, addressing the empty air once more but certain this time that someone is listening,

“Some people cannot be forgotten, Tissaia.”

And, as the Gyptian girl leaves, Tissaia sighs and rubs her temples hoping in vain that doing so will somehow erase Yennefer from her mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine years later...  
> Yennefer decides she wants to see Tissaia properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I imagine Yennefer singing is this version of 'Port na bPúcaí' by the wonderful Muireann Nic Amhlaoibh if you'd like to hear it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8C5QqFapcuw

Tissaia curses inwardly and rolls the tension that has gathered in her shoulders. They’ve been at this nearly an hour and it would seem she and Yennefer are equally stubborn. She’d heard them shouting for her, had been expecting it. But forewarning had done little to assuage the nervous pitter-patter her heart started up when she heard Yennefer calling her. The girl has grown since Tissaia saw her last. Grown into a woman, tall and strikingly beautiful. Her copper skin, black hair and violet silk neckerchief splashing vibrant colour against the snowy landscape. Tissaia has not noticed them before but now the scarf draws her attention to the colour of the Gyptian’s eyes. She struggles to describe it, it is not a colour one sees in the North, except perhaps when a storm is brewing. The sky sometimes goes that shade of purple before splitting open and raining with a vengeance. And even beneath the bulk of her parka, Tissaia can see her lithe body and the gentle swell of her chest, the long legs that are currently pacing agitatedly back and forth.

“I know you’re there! I mean it, I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

Leus nibbles at Tissaia’s earlobe, “We should just let them see us, what are you so afraid of?”

Tissaia bats her away, “Stop eating me! And you know what frightens me so why ask?”

Leus blinks imperiously, “Because I’m bored. And if you’re distracted you might slip-up, drop your cloaking and put us all out of our misery.”

Tissaia glares at her daemon and uses her irritation to fuel her concentration, strengthening the illusion of being inconspicuous. She watches as Yennefer plonks herself on the snow unceremoniously,

“I am going to sit here until either you appear, or I freeze. You decide.”

She’s scowling fiercely and her arms are crossed defiantly, Daegan settling himself behind her to lean against and keep her warm. He sniffs the air and turns his golden eyes exactly to where Tissaia is stood but only licks his paw languidly, either unaware of her location or deciding not to give her away. Tissaia waits and waits, convinced that Yennefer will eventually move. But she has vastly underestimated the stubbornness of the Gyptian woman and begins to worry as Yennefer shivers and droops.

Yennefer is _cold._ Even the solid warmth of Daegan behind her is not enough to keep out the chill of the wind and snow. But she is not moving. Not until the witch reveals herself. Because Yennefer is tired of this game, of waiting years before the next expedition and then holding conversations with the empty air. It’s been almost nine years since she picked up the feather and this is her fourth trip. She’s becoming known for her obsession with the North, always volunteering to be in the group that makes the journey to trade silks and timber for the whale-bones and seal-oil that they take back to the Fens and sell for handsome profit to the landlopers. She and Daegan always look for Tissaia and they know she watches them; they can feel her. Sometimes Yennefer is content to chat away, describing her travels or telling funny stories. Once she heard a laugh drift towards her on the wind and it had made her heart sing. Other times, like today, she gets cross and shouts. She always storms off eventually, hoping Tissaia will come after her but she never does. So, today, she is not moving an inch, she will freeze her backside to this patch of snow if she must. Daegan shivers,

“We should move, Yenna.”

“We’re staying.” She’s feeling warmer now, warm enough to sleep in fact. “I’m just going to shut my eyes for a moment.”

“No! Yenna, don’t! You _know_ what it means if you start to feel warm, get up!”

Daegan headbutts her anxiously but Yennefer just grumbles, “Don’t be such a worrier. Only for a minute…”

She droops further forward and snuggles into the snow as if it were a fur blanket. Daegan nips at her with his teeth but gets no response and turns to the growing dusk,

“Please! I know you’re there. She won’t waken.”

Tissaia makes an exasperated noise and allows herself to be noticed, gliding over the snow rather than trudging through it,

“Foolish girl! Yennefer, wake up!”

She does not have the energy to conjure a fire from nothing, not after maintaining her cloaking for so long. And it is too far to the camp to carry Yennefer. Tissaia hesitates only a moment then snaps a twiglet off her cloud-pine and pockets it in the folds of her silks before setting fire to the remainder of the branch. It is a large, beautiful spray, as befits a queen, which has carried her for decades. And it burns exceptionally well. It blazes and crackles bathing the surrounding snow in a rosy glow, casting long flickering shadows, little sparks snapping and drifting up into the air. With Daegan’s help, Tissaia drags Yennefer into the heat and lays her on her back. She kneels beside her and cups her cheeks, dragging her eyelids open with gentle but insistent thumbs,

“Yennefer, open your eyes, talk to me. Don’t choose now of all moments to finally be silent, girl.”

Yennefer mumbles petulantly, “I’m _not_ a girl anymore. I’m twenty-four!”

Tissaia releases her eyelids but grips her chin forcefully, “You display the wisdom of a child so I will address you as such. What were you thinking?”

Yennefer blinks her eyes open slowly, murmuring as her gaze focuses, “You’re even more beautiful than I remember…you haven’t aged a day.”

Tissaia realises that whilst she has watched Yennefer grow and mature, they Gyptian has not _seen_ Tissaia in over fourteen years. She is about to make a sharp remark on the discourtesy of discussing a woman’s age, particularly one who is a witch. But instead she gasps involuntarily and snatches her hands away from Yennefer’s face as Leus starts to preen Daegan’s fur with her beak, the big cat purring with delight and Yennefer’s eyes drifting shut in pleasure. Tissaia barks at her daemon,

“Leus, stop!”

The owl startles and glares at her but backs away from Daegan, haughty and ruffled. Yennefer protests,

“I don’t mind, I liked it. Please, let them touch, let us touch.” She reaches out for Tissaia who withdraws and stands. Yennefer smirks, “You can’t pretend you don’t want to, not when your daemon is all over mine.”

Tissaia swallows and flushes, her eyes sparking angrily but she is saved from her discomfort by Daegan,

“Leave her be, Yenna.”

Yennefer shrugs and sits up, tossing her curls. The effect is ruined when she promptly tilts to the side, her body still numb and uncooperative. Tissaia catches her by her shoulders, bracing her until Daegan curls himself round her so she can lean back against his flank, his head resting on her thigh. Tissaia is infinitely careful to avoid touching him and lets go of Yennefer as soon as she is supported, stepping away from the two of them with visible relief. Yennefer winces, stretching her fingers as the feeling returns to them, holding them in front of the fire once the pins and needles have eased. Tissaia settles herself gracefully at the other end of her charred cloud-pine, hands crossed neatly in her lap and perfectly still, Leus still huffy with her and flying loop-the-loops a little way off. Daegan is first to break the awkward silence,

“Doesn’t it hurt you? Leus being that far away?”

Tissaia shakes her head, “Witches’ daemons can separate. She could go as far as the Fens if need be and we would not be any the worse for it.”

His golden eyes widen in alarm and his tail twitches at the thought, “I couldn’t bear it.”

Yennefer strokes between his ears soothingly, “You would never have to, I would never let you out of my sight.”

She throws an accusing glance at Tissaia who betrays no reaction to Yennefer’s disapproval of her perceived callousness. Leus must have forgiven Tissaia’s earlier sharpness because she lands and addresses Yennefer,

“Sometimes we must make hard choices, Yennefer. We daemons can only hope our people have the strength to endure those choices and still be there for us afterwards.”

Tissaia smiles and turns her head to nuzzle at Leus when she perches on her shoulder, running some strands of Tissaia’s hair through her beak. Yennefer stares at the two of them in confusion and (though it stings her to admit it) awe – it is unimaginable to her to separate from Daegan, but even more inconceivable that she would be able to love him afterwards if they did. Daegan voices her thoughts,

“You must both be very strong then.”

He then yawns and stretches, luxuriating in the space around him. Yennefer has heard the older Gyptian women muttering about the two of them. Just as no sailor has a land-bound daemon, no steeplejack a daemon that cannot fly or be carried, no Gyptian should have a daemon that barely fits on a narrowboat. And the old gossips have a point. In amongst the small cats and birds and foxes, Daegan is out-of-place, too big and too attention-grabbing. They often end up sleeping on the roof rather than squishing into the cabins. And so, watching him elongate and sprawl elegantly across the snow, Yennefer feels her mood improve. He always calms her, brings her back from losing her temper, makes her stop and think before rushing into something. She glances at Leus and is struck with a thought, burning with curiosity but biting her tongue. Tissaia fixes her with her icy-blue eyes, arching her eyebrows,

“You have questions, _Duanna_. I can hear your mind turning them over and over.”

“I didn’t want to pry.”

Tissaia laughs with incredulity but not unkindly, “That has never stopped you before. Speak, what troubles you?”

“I can’t help noticing the difference between Leus and Daegan. He keeps me steady, quietens me. But Leus, she pushes you, does the things you won’t allow yourself to.”

Tissaia is quiet for a moment then replies, “Daemons are there to check our worst impulses, to counter what we naturally tend towards. A ‘good’ impulse can easily become a ‘bad’ one if taken too far. So, daemons adjust us, balancing us until we are the best we can be. Too much control is just as bad as not enough.” She adjusts the folds of her silks to hang more neatly then continues, “Our daemons are not a mirror of ourselves but are our shadows, giving us depth and definition. I have heard of worlds where people can neither see nor speak to their daemons, only able to hear them if they listen closely. They have only their own faces and mannerisms to present to others.”

Yennefer looks horrified, “But that would mean I appeared rash and impulsive, you would seem cold and withdrawn. And no one would be able to see the rest of what we are…”

Tissaia nods and shifts a little further from the fire, her pale cheeks pinking in the heat. Yennefer asks,

“Does it make you uncomfortable? The heat?”

“No more than cold does. But I am not enjoying the smell of my cloud-pine burning.”

Yennefer is mortified, only now realising what is fuelling the fire, “You didn’t? Oh, Tissaia, forgive me… You must allow me to replace it.”

“There is no need. I have kept a fragment which will grow into a new one.” Tissaia inclines her head graciously, “But I appreciate your contrition.”

Leus scoffs, “Don’t act all noble and magnanimous, you’d have burnt your dress if you had to, never mind that silly twig.”

Tissaia huffs and Yennefer chuckles, elbowing Daegan, “Now I know what it feels like when I make fun of you for being a goody-two-shoes.”

Daegan replies piously, “I couldn’t possibly comment” but purrs as Yennefer scratches under his chin.

The awkward tension that has lingered since Tissaia had stopped Leus from touching Daegan dissipates like the smoke that floats up and away leaving them with just the warm glow of the fire and each other’s company. They talk and laugh. Tissaia points out stars as though she knows each one personally and Yennefer sings a bawdy drinking song that has Tissaia flushing and biting back a smirk.

“You have a fine voice, _Duanna_.” She lets her ramrod-straight back slacken and leans back on her elbows, legs crossed at the ankle in front of her and locks eyes with Yennefer, “Sing me another. Something sweet this time.”

Yennefer plucks nervously at her sleeve, in two minds about singing vulnerably rather than with bravado. But Tissaia is watching her curiously, a challenge in her eyes, and Yennefer has never backed down from a dare. So, she picks a song she knows well enough that she won’t waver even under the intense scrutiny. It is long with many verses and lilting ornamentations that get added to the melody as it progresses and tells of a woman under the spell of the faery-folk, bewitched and enchanted. As she sings, she feels an invisible cord between her and Tissaia, pulling at her, drawing her towards the witch. She resists it but it grows stronger until she is certain if she reached out and grasped the air between them, she would feel threads palpable and quivering in her palm.

When Yennefer’s voice dies away, Tissaia nods imperceptibly at Leus, her eyes still locked with the Gyptian’s. Leus glides over and lands in front of Yennefer who moves aside to allow the owl access to Daegan. Tissaia speaks,

“Come. Sit by me, let them talk.”

It is said calmly but Yennefer can hear the command in it, and she finds she is willing to obey which is unusual for her. She settles herself cross-legged next to Tissaia and watches their daemons, all the while painfully aware of her proximity to the witch, a pale hand inches away from her own. Leus and Daegan touch noses politely then she hops onto his back and preens behind his ears with her beak, talking softly to him. Daegan’s back arches in enjoyment, his paws flexing with longing and a deep rumbling purr emanating from his chest. Yennefer’s hands are trembling with feeling and she slips them under her thighs to hide it. Tissaia speaks again,

“We pay our singers and storytellers in the North. What would you have of me?”

Yennefer finds the courage to smirk (albeit lopsidedly and her voice is thick with fervour) “I’d settle for a kiss.”

Tissaia turns to her and cups her cheek. She leans in and presses her lips lightly to the other cheek, lingering just long enough to make Yennefer’s head spin, an answering growl coming from Daegan as Leus tightens her claws in the scruff of his neck. All four of them are breathless and wild-eyed when Tissaia pulls back and insists,

“Enough. No more.”

Yennefer whimpers, “That wasn’t the sort of kiss I meant.” And reaches out to draw her back, convinced she will die if she does not feel Tissaia’s lips beneath her own. Tissaia stops her though, a hand firm against her chest and a stern look holding the younger woman back,

“I know. But it is all I can give.”

“Why?”

“Some questions do not have answers, _Duanna._ ”

Yennefer scowls and Tissaia sighs then reaches into the folds of her silks pulling out the twig of her cloud-pine and snapping it in half. She holds one piece out to Yennefer,

“Here. Should you ever need us, hold this in your hand and picture your location. Wherever you may be, we will find you.”

Yennefer takes it reverentially, knowing what a privilege it is to be given part of a witch’s cloud-pine, “Tissaia, I-”

The witch lays her fingers lightly against Yennefer’s lips, “Hush, some things are best left unsaid. It will be dawn soon and we must return to our own worlds, our own lives. Go now. We will meet again – I am certain of it.”

She says it seriously, but the hint of a knowing smile plays round her lips and Yennefer blushes because she is already planning her next trip North, already pondering what gift to bring the witch queen. Tissaia stands and Leus joins her, Daegan padding over to stand beside Yennefer. The witch and owl cannot fly off with no cloud-pine, but they glide over the snow, fading into the night, Yennefer and Daegan watching them go.

Just before they vanish from sight, Yennefer shouts, “Next time, I’ll bring the firewood!”

And the laugh that echoes back to her warms her more than any flame could.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years later...  
> Yennefer thinks Tissaia has forgotten her.  
> Warning: mentions racially-motivated violence, depicts death of minor characters  
> 

[Chapter Four - Fanart](https://sentientpinkfrosting.tumblr.com/post/633466513949671424/another-simple-drawing-this-time-yen-and-daegan)

Yennefer traces with her fingertip down Istredd’s stomach, circling round his belly button and stroking through the fuzzy dark hair on his navel. He smiles with his eyes still closed,

“I’m awake, you know.”

“I know.”

“I thought maybe you were hoping I was asleep and not witnessing your gentleness.”

Yennefer smirks and nips with her teeth at his pec, tugging sharply on a nipple, “You were saying something about being gentle?”

Istredd winces and takes a shaky breath as her finger dips lower and her tongue replaces her teeth on his chest. “Yenna… don’t start me, I-”

His protests become a groan as she grips him and starts to glide her fist up and down. He reaches for her, but she pulls away until she is on her knees out of his reach but still holding him, pumping harder as his breath becomes ragged and he grips the sides of the narrow bunk. His raven daemon, Merle, croaks softly as Daegan pins her with his front paws and rubs his muzzle over her, her beak snapping as she wriggles in pleasure. Daegan drags his rough tongue up her neck, purring as she pants to match Istredd’s gasping breaths. Yennefer watches with satisfaction as Istredd loses control, his eyes rolling back in his head, loud guttural moans escaping the usually quiet scholar, hips bucking erratically as he empties himself into her hand and Merle descends into croaky, warbling cries then goes limp.

“ _Yenna_!”

Istredd breathes the word reverentially and Yennefer can’t help the little stab of guilt that comes whenever he forgets to hide that he is in love with her. He is not the first man in her bed, and he will not be the last, however much he might wish it. She likes his company and the pleasure he gives her which is always effective if a little predictable. But she does not love him, nor does she wish to settle down. He knows this and, for now, is content to visit when she invites, to sneak out of the College and down to the canal whenever the narrowboats are moored there. Yennefer knows it will not last, it cannot. He will want, need, more eventually and she will not be able to give it. But, as she wipes her hand on the sheet (not without a little distaste, why must men always make such a mess?) and lays her cheek on his chest, she decides not to think about the future and instead enjoy tonight. Daegan licks carefully along Merle’s neck where he has mussed her feathers then settles down to snooze with her cuddled in his paws just the way she likes. He is always gentle with her afterwards; they both know the truth of their humans’ hearts and they do what they can to maintain the friendship and minimise the heartbreak that will inevitably come at some point.

Yennefer is the last of the four to fall asleep and she finds her thoughts turning inwards. She had been surprised the first time she looked at a man and felt desire stirring. She’d thought it would be only women, after all her first love was the witch. The young Gyptian man whom she had danced with and lost her virginity to during a byanroping had been handsome, funny, just the right side of cocky. And she’d enjoyed it, enjoyed him. Then, some weeks later, a pretty landloper girl with blonde hair had smiled at her in a marketplace and, before she knew it, Yennefer had those golden tresses fanned across her hips and a nimble tongue in between her thighs. Now, she does not let it bother her having both men and women, she enjoys _people_ and the pleasure they give her, regardless of their anatomy. Daegan had been the one to insist on their rule though; she never sleeps with anyone who reminds her of Tissaia, anyone who could pass for the witch through half-closed eyelids in the heat of passion. He had been adamant, and Yennefer had brushed off his concern, but she sticks to the rule all the same. She is just drifting off when she hears the smash of glass and whoosh of fuel igniting,

“Stinking Gyptians! Dirty thieving scum!”

She curses and clambers over Istredd to get out of the bunk,

“Daegan, wake up! Istredd, up now, move!”

He sits up and rubs his eyes, “What’s happening?”

Yennefer pulls on her clothes and boots, throwing him a sharp look, “What do you think, genius? What always happens. Something goes wrong, and we get blamed for it.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Don’t be an idiot, if they find you here, you’ll be expelled, blacklisted by every College there is – it is ‘forbidden to fraternise with Gyptians, Witches and any other such abominations’ remember?”

“That’s just an old rule left over from centuries ago, no one actually enforces it.”

Yennefer grabs him by his shirtfront, “Listen to me! That out there is a mob intent on removing Gyptians from the face of the earth, do you think they’ll wait to check if you’re one before they murder you? Get out and go back to your books, if only so someone can tell the story later.” She kisses his cheek distractedly, “You’re not a fighter, Izz, your job is to write down what happened after the war is over.”

He looks hurt but gathers his clothes and satchel, Merle fluttering onto his shoulder. He turns back just before disembarking from the boat, “I’d be a fighter for you, Yenna. Not that you’d ever let me.”

Yennefer does not have time to worry she has hurt his feelings as she slips into her leather jacket, jams her fedora on her head (after all, no self-respecting Gyptian goes to a fight without their hat) and picks up the heavy staff she keeps in the corner. She turns to Daegan who is sharpening his claws on the wood of the bunk,

“Ready?”

He lashes his tail, “Ready.”

As she always does before leaving the cabin, Yennefer touches the band round the crown of her fedora to check the feather is there and fingers the little pouch she wears on a leather-thong round her neck, feeling for the cloud-pine twig that rests inside it. It’s become a habit; one she barely associates with Tissaia anymore. She has not seen the witch in years, not since that night round the fire. They have been North twice since then, but their shouts have gone unanswered and Daegan assures Yennefer that Tissaia has not been there watching them unnoticed. “I can feel when she’s there, even if she’s cloaked”, he explained the last time as Yennefer had desperately marched about, waving her hands around in hope of grabbing the invisible witch. It’s been almost six years since she sang to Tissaia and Yennefer has managed to forget her, or at least to not think of her with anything but bitter indifference. Yet still, even though the feather and twig hold little meaning now, she does not go anywhere without them.

The insults and fire-bottle had meant Yennefer was expecting to see a mob descending on the boats. And she was right, to a degree. They are there, a seething mass of townsfolk brandishing makeshift weapons and flaming torches. But they are moodily quiet, restrained and brought to order by the line of uniformed guards in front of them. The presence of authority and officialdom only makes Yennefer’s blood run cold, however. The guards are all clothed in the uniform of the CDC, tall and lethal Tartars with vicious wolf daemons. They are not here to protect the Gyptians, that much is certain. To her horror, Yennefer sees the family leader, Hen Gedymdeith, walk calmly down the causeway towards the guards. She hurries over to the blacksmith who is stood watching with a grim expression.

“Vesemir! What’s he _doing_?”

Vesemir hushes her and gestures to the narrowboats neatly lined up along the canal. “Buying them time.”

Yennefer squints and sees the steady stream of people picking their way across the decks towards the far bank, all silent and dark clothed, barely visible if you weren’t looking on purpose. Vesemir tries to shepherd her towards them,

“Go on lass, get out while you can.”

She scowls at him, “I’m not going anywhere!”

The Gyptian leader reaches the patch of ground in front of the CDC and spreads his hands placatingly but without losing any of his dignity. Hen Gedymdeith is neither a small nor weak man, he is old but spry and still has broad shoulders and strong arms. But for all his strength, he is a patient man, preferring to rely on his wits and cunning than turn to brute force. As evidenced by Ruaridh, his trim little vixen daemon with dark, intelligent eyes. And it is this that the CDC commander takes advantage of. He will not win a brawl with the Gyptian leader, but his wolf makes easy work of clamping its jaws around Ruaridh. She is brave and fights but her neat body and delicate paws are no match for the wolf. Hen Gedymdeith gasps and falls to his knees as the wolf shakes Ruaridh in its maw, and the CDC commander draws his pistol languidly, lining it up casually with the Gyptian’s skull.

“No!”

Yennefer is held back by Vesemir’s big hands as she tries to rush forwards, “Let it be lass! He knew it would come to this, don’t make his death count for nothing by drawing them to us.”

Yennefer fights his grip but can’t see clearly enough through the tears blurring her vision to escape his hold. The shot is louder than she is expecting, ringing in her ears and echoing through her skull. Hen Gedymdeith falls forward and lays inert, Ruaridh vanishing into thin air leaving the wolf with empty jaws. The commander waves his troops forward and they advance, flame-throwers arcing through the air and igniting the boats. Most of the Gyptians have made it but there are still a few crossing, now in full view as the boats start to burn, making the night bright as day. Vesemir and two other men are the only ones left on the causeway and they now space themselves across it, blocking the CDC’s path. Yennefer joins them swinging her staff between palms and Daegan snarling. Caoimhe, Vesemir’s grizzled badger daemon, flexes her claws and bristles at the approaching wolves,

“Come on then you bastards! I’ve beaten bigger brutes than you!”

Yennefer recognises the other men holding the path with her, she grew up with them though they are a few years older than her. She once stole a knife from Eskel. And Lambert tried to kiss her once when they were teenagers and she kneed him in the groin for it. Daegan politely touches noses with Eskel’s shaggy lurcher daemon as they take a stand next to them. Eskel murmurs,

“Alright Yenna?”

She nods and tightens her grip on the heavy wooden pole that seems insubstantial against the guns and fire. Daegan snarls again though and she feels braver, planting her feet more firmly. These bastards are not getting past her until every last Gyptian is safe on the other bank. And, in case she never gets another chance to, Yennefer fumbles for the pouch round her neck, clenches the twig in her palm and tries, one more time, to find Tissaia.

Daegan has heard the mutterings about him, knows what people say behind his back. And he has always brushed it off because he believes he is as he should be. And tonight, he knows he was right. He is by far the biggest and strongest daemon in the family and the only one bigger than the wolves. As he swings his paws and bites, roars and slashes, throwing those accursed wolves back down the causeway, he delights in himself. His is big and loud and fierce and he is _glad_ to be. He steps in agile turns, rams into the wolves with his solid body, slices one open with his claws and sends another into the water. He feels Yenna’s pride in him and he rejoices, ripping another wolf from where it has pinned Caoimhe down. The badger wrinkles her snout in a grin and Daegan is about to smile back when she screams and dissipates, Vesemir falling bloody onto the cobblestones. Daegan roars in anguish and launches himself at the Tartar who fired the shot, the taboo of touching another human drowned out by his rage.

Yennefer gasps at the tugging in her chest as Daegan leaps past her, lengthening the distance between them. She sees Vesemir’s blood shining in the firelight, feels Daegan’s anger filling her also and she howls, bringing her cudgel down onto the skull of a wolf, ignoring the revulsion that comes when someone lays hands on Daegan trying to hold him back from biting out their throat. Eskel and Lambert fall one after the other, shots ringing out and Yennefer looks up to see the commander with his pistol drawn on her. She dives off the causeway into the canal, her ribs screaming as the distance between her and Daegan increases. But she forces herself to swim, staying underwater until she must breathe or drown. When she breaks the surface, she sees she is halfway across, the burning boats scorching her face. Treading water, she shouts,

“Daegan!”

But her daemon has not followed her into the water. It is nauseating, crippling, being so far away from him. And although the cold-eyed commander and his pistol frighten her, nothing scares Yennefer more than the thought of losing Daegan. So, she swims back towards the causeway avoiding the burning debris that floats past her. Yennefer hauls herself up onto the stones and whimpers when she sees Daegan lying on his side, flanks heaving and fur matted with blood, singed patches smoking from where a flame-thrower caught him. There are dead Tartars strewn around him, none have made it past, only the commander still standing, his wolf limping at his side. He’s lost his pistol, but he draws a metal baton from his belt, flicking it menacingly to elongate it, and his wolf slavers, gnashing its teeth. Yennefer lays herself over Daegan, trying to sooth him,

“It’s alright Daegan, I’m here, we’re together.”

He only manages a tiny, closed-mouth miaow. Past the commander, Yennefer sees uniformed reinforcements arrive, dozens of fresh guards advancing towards them. As the baton raises, Yennefer buries her face in Daegan’s neck, she does not want that man to be the last thing she sees. A wind stirs suddenly, an eerie screaming drifting towards her. Through it she hears a screech of rage and opens her eyes in time to see Leus diving at the commander’s face, claws ripping at him and wings flapping furiously. The usually calm and dignified owl is a blur of feathers and talons, shrieking and snapping her beak, mercilessly blinding the man. His wolf tries to reach her with its teeth but suddenly keels over, a black-feathered arrow protruding from its flank. Yennefer struggles to a sitting position and sees the sky is dark with witches, all screaming and firing arrows at the CDC, covering the last of the Gyptians’ retreat, picking off the guards one by one, dodging the flame-throwers with ease. The commander roars with rage and swings his baton blindly, intent on taking Yennefer with him even as his wolf struggles to breath and grows glassy-eyed. He staggers towards her but falls to his knees and then lands face-down in a puddle, an arrow embedded in his back. Tissaia lands gracefully, the bow in her hand still thrumming from the shot. Time seems to slow as Yennefer watches the witch walk towards her, her sharp-face full of dark shadows in the flickering firelight, a cold rage in her eyes, Leus with bloodied claws and beak. They look terrible and wonderful and Yennefer can only gaze up in awe,

“You came…”

Tissaia kneels beside her and cups her face, Leus nuzzling against Daegan as he cries, too weak to even raise his head.

“I will always come when you call, _Duanna_.”

Yennefer wants to believe it, to fall into Tissaia’s arms and trust it but she forces herself to argue, “You didn’t last time. We tried to find you in the North, and you weren’t there.”

Tissaia’s eyes cloud momentarily and her jaw jumps but her voice is steady when she replies, “I was not at liberty to make my own choices then. I will tell you the story when you are stronger but please, Yennefer, believe that I wanted to come to you. That it destroyed me hearing you and being unable to answer.”

Daegan’s breathing grows more laboured, his eyes glazing over and Yennefer trembles,

“I don’t want to die.”

Tissaia grips her tighter, “You’re not going to. We’re going to look after you both. You are ours.”

And although she usually balks at the idea of belong to someone, breaking off a relationship at the first sign of possessiveness, Yennefer slumps into Tissaia hands and surrenders, her vision going dark and Tissaia’s voice fading until she remembers nothing anymore.

Tissaia holds an unconscious Yennefer in her arms, Leus hovering protectively over Daegan’s limp body, the sky still glowing with the blazing narrowboats. And Tissaia echoes to her daemon, making a promise to one another, of the sort that they have not made in decades,

“They are ours.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissaia has both answers and questions for Yennefer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is verging into crossover territory rather than simply an AU with some exploration of the early intercision experiements at Bolvangar...still very much a story about Tissaia and Yennefer though, just incorporating them even deeper into the world of His Dark Materials.

_Tissaia rests her forehead against the bars and shuts her eyes against the strain in her chest. Witches can endure separation from their daemons, but ‘endure’ is exactly the word for it. It does not cause her the agony, the death that it does humans but that does not mean it is comfortable. However, the ache is nothing compared to when a stranger lays a hand on Leus. The revulsion and fear caused by the sickening violation exacerbated by the fact that Tissaia herself has not touched Leus in over two weeks. It is as though her soul is being ravaged, fondled and pawed without her consent. The indignant, defiant screech that echoes through the corridor to her is both a blessing and a curse, it means Leus is close enough to be heard and that she has not yet given up. But it also means Tissaia has ample material to fuel her imagination as she envisions what they are doing to her beloved daemon. They have done much to Tissaia in the two weeks since she was captured. The fingers on her left hand are stuck at awkward angles and she has yet to summon the courage to straighten them, so they heal cleanly. The bones are starting to knit though, she can feel them grating, if she is to avoid being crippled, she must perform the healing enchantment soon. She has managed not to reveal the prophecy details so far, but she is not certain she will last another bone-breaking session. And then there is the other matter her captors seem so interested in. They are fascinated by witches’ ability to separate without dying, prodding her for details of the ritual that enables it. They bring a shiny, silvery metal with them sometimes, observing how she reacts to it when it is pressed against her or what happens if they swipe it through the air between her and the door to the corridor. And they take photographs of her, though they are unlike any she has seen before, her image distorted and dim but a glowing cloud visible around her. She hears them whisper it with fear in their eyes, ‘Dust’._

_The door to the corridor opens and Tissaia cannot keep herself from crying out in a strangled voice,_

_“Leus!”_

_The owl is caged, her wings clipped back, and beak muzzled, downy fluff visible where her feathers have been plucked. But her eyes are snapping, orange and alive, blazing with love when she sees Tissaia. An unfamiliar man follows those who are holding Leus, clipboards and cameras. He has eyes such a pale blue that they seem colourless and his daemon is a white snake with red eyes, coiled round his shoulders, its forked tongue flicking over the collar and chain that identify him as a Magisterium official. Tissaia shivers. Snakes are not inherently evil daemons, Doctor Lanselius who serves as Consul to the witches has an emerald one and Tissaia would trust him with her life. But the priest’s daemon has a malevolent glint in her… no, his eyes…interestingly, this priest also has a daemon of his own gender. Tissaia guesses (correctly) that this is a source of great shame to him. As though he knows her thoughts his lip curls bitterly and he instructs,_

_“Use the blade.”_

_One of the men in white coats produces a long, wide blade made of that metal Tissaia does not recognise. She is certain it is not one that is mined raw from the earth. Leus is placed on a table in front of her, the two of them separated by their respective cages. And then the knife is brought down through the air between them. Tissaia resists the urge to laugh out loud at the crestfallen looks on her captor’s faces when nothing happens. The priest thins his lips,  
_

_“Bring me a human. The bond is already broken with these two.”_

_An old man is dragged in, dressed in the uniform of a cleaner, a mop still clutched in his hands and his fox-terrier daemon growling and twisting as he is carried by the scruff of his neck. Tissaia watches with a prickling foreboding of dread as the blade is raised. Her fears are validated when the metal seems to catch on something invisible and the man screams, the terrier yowling. The priest commands,_

_“More! Do not stop, sever it!”_

_The man doing the cutting trembles but saws through the empty air, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of it. The sounds are terrible, the despair and grief as man and daemon are crudely separated. Tissaia begs,_

_“Stop! You know not what you do, this is not the way!”_

_The priest turns to her, fixing her with those dreadful pale eyes, “You would reveal this other way? Or will you hold your secrets as this man suffers?”_

_And although it will haunt her until she dies, Tissaia keeps silent because some questions are not meant to be answered. Then, to join the awful keening cry of the man and the whimpering of the terrier, a further torment reaches Tissaia’s ears. Yennefer’s voice is eager at first but grows angry as her shouts go unanswered. Daegan’s yowling is plaintive and desperate, all the worse because he is usually so even keeled. And it is this that breaks her, sliding down the bars to huddle on the floor, cradling her mangled hand and crying. Neither the priest nor his lackeys can hear Yennefer, so they assume their horrific experiment is what troubles her and the priest takes great delight in her misery,_

_“Abomination! Weep, as you and all your kind will weep when the Almighty casts you aside!”_

_Leus writhes against her bonds and makes a muffled screech, itching to claw his colourless eyes from their sockets. Her defiant spirit is what gives Tissaia the strength to stand again and look him right in the eyes,_

_“If I weep it will be for those whom I have loved and lost, not for the suffering I have caused others or for my own sins. Could you say the same, Father?”_

_He hisses as though he were his snake and turns on his heel, storming out the door but shouting over his shoulder,_

_“Leave that bird where it is, I want them to see each other but not be able to touch.”_

* * * *

Tissaia runs the fingers of her left hand through Yennefer’s hair and, while she is not prone to fanciful notions, imagines the silky curls are soothing the ache of her shattered and twisted bones. It somehow feels both aeons and no time at all since she had been in that cell, gritting her teeth and healing her own fingers. She’d felt a fierce enjoyment last night as her hand had curled round her bow, gripping it sure and strong. They had tried to break her, but they had not succeeded. And then, they had tried to hurt Yennefer which was their gravest mistake. Tissaia may have heeded the Consul’s pleas for neutrality, may have put the collective good of her clan above her own desire for revenge, may have left those evil, puny men to their experiments if they had only hurt her and Leus. But not Yennefer, not Daegan. The Magisterium, the CDC and whoever those sadists in Bolvangar were, all signed their own death warrants when they set fire to the Gyptian ships, when they _dared_ to raise a hand to Yennefer. Because it is a truth well-known; a witch’s love is fierce.

Leus is dozing with her head under her wing and Tissaia hides a fond smile. Her daemon is no more asleep than Tissaia is herself. But the owl knows Tissaia does not display emotion easily and is giving her the semblance of privacy to process her thoughts and feelings. It is a rare instance when Tissaia wishes Leus was some other form, but it had happened earlier today. She had been tending to Daegan’s wounds and had found herself wishing Leus was an animal that had paws or hands so that she could be the one bandaging Yennefer’s daemon, the one cleaning his burns and gashes rather than the witch having to do it. Tissaia is still in two minds about whether she wants to tell Yennefer about it when she wakes. On the one hand, it had been a relief that neither she nor Daegan were aware of Tissaia’s touches. But it also feels like a violation to hide the fact that she has laid hands on Daegan. As though someone had crept into another’s bed in the night and caressed them without their knowledge. She is pulled from her inner debate by a young man crashing into the tent. His eyes are wide and his voice cracks as he falls to his knees beside Yennefer, heedless of Tissaia, and grabs the Gyptian’s hand,

“Yenna? Are you alright? Yenna, it’s Istredd.”

He palms her face, kisses her on the mouth and Leus ruffles, glaring at his raven daemon who snaps her beak saucily in response. The boy seems unaware of the antagonism between the daemons and kisses Yennefer again,

“It’s alright, I’m here now.”

Tissaia can feel Leus gearing up to cause a scene so she stands, and they leave the tent, Leus hissing before the flap has closed behind them,

“ _Who_ the blazes is that and why is he drooling all over what is _ours_?”

Tissaia cautions her, “We have not yet asked them to be ours. Yennefer and Daegan may already be committed to another.” Leus pinches Tissaia with her beak who yelps and rubs the spot, “Ouch! What was that for?”

“You promised. Don’t you dare think about running away again. Kick that boy out on his skinny arse and be the first face Yennefer sees when she wakes. And then give her a piece of your mind for daring to take any lover but you.”

“We go years without seeing each other. I have never allowed her close to me. What would you have had her do? Remain celibate?”

Leus just turns her head away haughtily, “You know what I want, what I have always wanted, to happen between the two of you. It remains to be seen whether you listen to me.”

Yennefer wakes to the sensation of fingers running through her hair and she sighs,

“ _Tissaia…”_

The fingers stop abruptly and get snatched away from her scalp. She drags her eyelids open and Istredd’s face slowly comes into focus. He clears his throat awkwardly and pastes a too-wide smile on his face,

“Hello, Yenna. It’s good to see you.”

And, although she hates herself for it, Yennefer is irritated at his fawning touches, his eagerness to help her sit up.

“Where’s Tissaia?”

“Who?”

“Tissaia, the one who saved me.”

Istredd asks with distaste, “The witch?”

“Don’t say it like that!”

“Like what?”

“As though she were something unsavoury or shameful! She saved me; her clan rescued the entire Gyptian family.”

“Yes but, she’s still a witch Yenna. They’re not like us. You know they can separate? And they worship _female_ deities, practice black magic, they can _fly_ – it’s unnatural.”

Yennefer pulls away from his grasp, “For one who spends so much time with his nose in books, your mind is far too narrow and small. All those worlds you read of and study – they are not just imaginings; the stories have to come from somewhere.”

Istredd is not usually malicious but Yennefer sees the moment his jealousy wins out over his conscience, his eyes darkening, “You can’t even read your own name – what would you know of books? And that witch, she thinks no one’s noticed but everyone knows it – her daemon is female. You know what that means…”

Yennefer crosses her arms and invites coldly, “Enlighten me.”

Istredd flusters for a moment, whether at the dangerous edge in Yennefer’s voice or with embarrassment at having to discuss such matters is unclear, “She’s… she’s an invert, the wrong way around inside.”

Yennefer is shaking with rage, but it is Daegan who raises his head from his front paws and fixes Istredd with his golden eyes. His voice is raspy, still swollen from the smoke and roaring of last night, and his tone is resigned, disappointed,

“Get out. And don’t come back until you’ve learnt some manners and got it into that thick skull of yours that not everything your precious Magisterium and College tell you is irrefutable.”

Yennefer tosses her curls, glaring pointedly at the scholar, “Yes, we know big words like irrefutable.”

Merle has been silent until now, but she speaks, “Come, Istredd. We do ourselves no favours here. Only time will tell if we are still to be friends.”

Istredd swallows hard then storms out of the tent but not before Yennefer nonchalantly informs him,

“If you ever insult Tissaia again, to her face or behind her back, I will rip your tongue out with my bare hands.”

As soon as the tent flap settles in place, Yennefer notices Tissaia leaning against one of the canvass walls, a glittering in her eyes that might be tears or just the candlelight reflecting in her pupils. Yennefer demands,

“How long have you been listening? I wish you wouldn't do that trick where you pretend you're not there!”

Tissaia does not answer, only crosses the space separating them purposefully, as though she is afraid that her mind will change itself if she does not act quickly. She bends at the waist to cup Yennefer’s jaw, who is still sat on her bedroll on the ground, framing her face in her hands,

“It is usually you who have the questions, _Duanna_ , but I will ask one now. I would give myself to you, would make you my own. I want you Yennefer, will you have me?”

Yennefer can hardly breathe but she summons the cognition required to murmur, “Need you ask, _ves’tacha_?”

Tissaia insists, half-demanding half-pleading, “I want you to say it.”

Yennefer reaches up to grip the witch’s wrists, leans their foreheads together, “I am yours, you are mine.”

The tentative brush of Tissaia’s lips against her own makes Yennefer shiver and then she is too inflamed to feel cold because Tissaia presses them together with more fervour, eager and insistent. The warm slide of Tissaia’s mouth, the way her fingers dig ever so gently into Yennefer’s jaw, the strands of her hair that tumble over her temple and tickle Yennefer’s eyelids. It’s all too much and not enough and Yennefer hears herself whimper, Tissaia answering with a gasp and falling to her knees so they can press their bodies closer.

Daegan raises his head slowly, sniffs the air. He is still sore, and he feels weary, old beyond his years. The taste of blood still fills his mouth and he cannot seem to clean the stains from his paws, he still hears the screams of those he murdered. And although he knows it was necessary, he wishes he never had cause to know what it feels like to have the blood from a carotid burst across his tongue and well out between his teeth. But Yenna’s joy and desire is coursing through him also, he can feel her delight and it makes the black fog behind his eyes lift a little. He sees Leus watching him, waiting. And suddenly, he is a cub in the snow again, fascinated by the poised owl, so eager for her to notice him that he prances about like a fool. Scared of her but drawn to her. His wounds ache a little less, the smell of smoke and salt leaves his nostrils and he rolls onto his back, his paws wide, offering himself to Leus. She quivers in anticipation then hoots joyously, swooping towards him so enthusiastically that she thuds into his chest, burrowing her face in the silky fur and crooning. His paws come up to rest on her, lightly enough not to crush her but firmly all the same, and he purrs before carefully licking between her ear-tufts. And then, he starts to laugh as she tickles him with her beak, until they are both giggling and rolling about, lashing tails and fluttering wings playfully.

Tissaia’s kisses are all-consuming but Yennefer has to pull away because Daegan is being an idiot, making the ridiculous noise that sounds like hiccupping but is his way of laughing. Tissaia looks just as exasperated with Leus who is hopping about and shaking her tail feathers suggestively. The witch asks with exaggerated politeness,

“Have you two quite finished? Or are we to have more of this circus?”

Leus just rotates her head to blink at Tissaia and wriggle her ear-tufts making Daegan snort and laugh again. Yennefer also has to bite her lip to supress a giggle and Tissaia smirks,

“Very well. This is the game you want to play, _Duanna_?”

And before anyone has time to be shocked, the dignified witch has pinned Yennefer down and starts tickling her. Yennefer shrieks with laughter, pleading,

“No! I’m sorry, Tissaia, eeeek! Daegan, help!”

But Daegan just chortles and purrs as Leus perches on his back and flexes her claws in his fur. Yennefer’s stubbornness kicks in and she manages to flip them, but Tissaia is stronger than she looks and rolls them over and over until they have crashed into the other side of the tent, breathless with laughter and dishevelled. Yennefer has ended up on the bottom and reaches up to brush some hair off Tissaia’s face,

“Kiss me, _ves’tacha_ , kiss me until I have forgotten all I once knew.”

Tissaia lowers her head to murmur against the shell of Yennefer’s ear, “Only if you tell me what that word is.”

Yennefer smiles and turns her head to whisper, “It is how a Gyptian says ‘my beloved’.”

Tissaia’s fingers come up to stroke through Yennefer’s hair, her mouth still hot and damp against her ear, “Say it again, _Duanna_.”

“ _Ves’tacha_.”

They kiss until their lips are swollen and their bodies strung so tight, they tremble like spiderwebs in a breath of air. Tissaia pulls away to sit cross-legged and Yennefer starts to protest but goes silent as she realises Leus is approaching her. The owl unfolds a wing and reaches out slowly, watching for any hesitation on Yennefer’s part. There is none and so, Leus caresses down Yennefer’s face with tip of her wing, both of them melting into the touch. Yennefer reaches out a cupped palm and Leus arches her head up into it, eyes drifting shut in pleasure as Yennefer strokes her. Tissaia’s chest heaves and she quivers with every touch on Leus magnified in her own body. Daegan stands and pads towards her, holding her blue gaze with his own before slowly resting his head in her lap. When she runs a single fingertip down his head from his ears to his neck, he growls then starts a deep, reverberating purr, licking at the wrist of her other hand. Yennefer’s sighs echo his enjoyment and she feels oddly close to tears. Daegan has touched many daemons in their life so far, many of them as lovers, but no other human has ever touched him like this. Leus strokes her with a wingtip again,

“Are you alright, Yennefer?”

Yennefer nods and presses a gentle kiss to the owl’s head, “It’s just more than I’ve ever known before. Is it always like this?”

It is Tissaia who answers, “No, _Duanna_. We have lived nearly four hundred years and never found anyone like you.”

Daegan looks up from her lap and lays a paw carefully over her hand, “Then we are glad to have been found.”

Yennefer and Leus come over to join the witch and the big cat, the four of them nestling together, stroking people and daemons both. There will be sorrow later tonight as the funeral pyres are lit, three witches and twenty Gyptians were lost. But, for now, there is only each other. And it is everything. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer and Tissaia deal with the aftermath of the attack

The smell of the spruce logs and willow twigs packed between them would normally be a pleasant one to Yennefer. But now it only makes her feel sick with grief. The cloying smell of the pitch being poured over the pyres is not helping the queasiness in her stomach so Daegan licks at her fingers to comfort her. She scratches behind his ears, careful to avoid the gash across the back of his neck where a wolf had bitten him. His limp is pronounced but he refuses to lie about doing nothing, not when Yennefer is fidgety and ill-at-ease, and she loves him for it. She still asks concernedly though,

“Are you tired? Should we stop?” 

“No. It’s nice being outside.” He sits on his haunches and sniffs the air, his snout wrinkling in distaste at the pitch, “It’s a shame about the boats. Vesemir would have wanted a boat.”

It is Gyptian custom to place the dead in a boat and float it out before setting fire to it. But all the family’s boats already lie charred at the bottom of the canal. It had been Tissaia who offered the option of pyres, as is the custom among witches. The witch queen has been pulled away from Yennefer to attend to her sisters who fell in the battle, her eyes dark with sorrow, the weight of their deaths making her normally straight shoulders droop a little. Yennefer had wanted to go with her but Leus had nuzzled at her ear and murmured,

“Leave her be, Yennefer. She will have need of you later when she can stop being their queen. For now, go to your people, mourn your dead.”

And so, she and Daegan had walked out to the clearing where the pyres are being built, ignoring the sideways glances. Between Daegan’s vicious massacre and Yennefer arriving at the makeshift camp limp in a witch queen’s arms, they have caused quite the stir amongst the Gyptians. Without Hen Gedymdeith or Vesemir the family had been in danger of wandering like sheep but the young John Faa has stepped up, leading them to this stretch of woodland far enough from the town that none of the nearby landlopers will be inclined to betray them to the Magisterium. Faa and the blacksmith’s apprentice, Coram, are barely twenty but they have both become the de facto leaders in the two days since the attack. A byanroping once the mourning period has passed will allow them to be elected properly but for now, the Gyptians’ priority is remembering their dead and finding new boats.

The sun starts to lower in the sky, and it will soon be time to join the procession so Yennefer and Daegan return to their tent. Her jacket is soot-stained but survived the water and fire largely unscathed, so Yennefer sets about cleaning the leather, rubbing some scented wax into it to re-waterproof it and mask the smell of canal sludge. Her hat fared considerably worse, its brim floppy and tattered, the feather lost in the fighting. She frowns, this will not do, Vesemir would not approve of a sad hat, or worse, no hat at all. Daegan muses,

“We could see if anyone has one to trade.”

“We’ve not got anything to give in return… everything was on our boat.”

He says nothing, only nudges her hair back with his paw to brush against her ear. Yennefer sighs but knows he is right. She eases the solid gold hoops from her earlobes that every Gyptian gets given when their daemon settles. They are given so no Gyptian is ever without something of value if they find themselves with nothing. It is a source of pride, of dignity, to still be wearing them when you are old and grey. Yennefer had hoped never to remove hers, but she refuses to be shoddily dressed at Vesemir’s funeral. And she will need money for food, to put towards a new boat, to fund her next expedition North. Because she knows she cannot ask Tissaia to stay here much longer, her duties will take her back to her clan. Squaring her shoulders, Yennefer strides out towards the nearby landloper village to find someone willing to give her a fair price. No Gyptian will take her earrings and everyone in the camp is as empty-handed as each other at the moment.

* * * *

In the tavern, a travelling salesman rubs his palms together greedily when she shows him the gold. His daemon is a rat with a greasy coat and beady eyes, chattering her teeth at Daegan who pointedly ignores her. The man notices and smirks,

“Your daemon thinks a lot of himself… you would do well to remember it is I who have the upper hand here.”

“Do you want them or not?”

“I’ll give you fifteen.”

“They’re worth at least three times that much!”

“As I said, I’m not the one who’s desperate.”

The rat snickers and reaches a grubby paw for the earrings on the table only to squeak in alarm as a big hand lands on the table, inches from her whiskers. Yennefer looks up to see a grim man with oddly coloured eyes, white hair and a horrid scar down his face. He grunts,

“You’ll pay the fair price, or I’ll teach you how to count properly.”

“Now look here, you vagrant, keep your ugly mug out of other people’s affairs!”

The salesman’s insults morph into a shriek as the man grips one of his fingers and bends it backwards,

“One.” Another finger creaks in its socket, “Two. Do you need me to go on? I’m told there are some who can’t go past ten without their toes in view.”

His canine daemon who has been silent and unmoving suddenly snaps her teeth at the salesman’s boots as though to pull them off.

“Enough! I’ll give you forty-five!”

The white-haired man smiles horribly, “I think a nice round fifty would be best. And the pick of whatever’s in the bag, of course.”

The peddler hesitates but relents as a third finger is pulled into an iron grip, “Fine! Just don’t hurt me!”

He is released and grudgingly counts out fifty in coins while Yennefer selects a fedora in black felt with decorative white stitching round the brim, a red silk neckerchief, a bundle of dried venison and a sack of apples from his wares. She is normally a fair trader, never cheating someone out of their due but the peddler lost her good will when he tried to fleece her. He whimpers when he sees her take the hat that would have fetched him close to sixty in a town but is silenced by a glare from the white-haired man who grunts,

“I think that concludes business.”

And then makes his way to the bar. Yennefer gathers up her money and hurries after him,

“Wait! The least I can do is buy you a drink.”

He turns and looks at her quizzically, “You don’t know what I am, do you? People round here don’t generally offer to drink with a Tartar.”

Yennefer hesitates and flinches when his daemon which she had mistaken for a dog in the shadows steps into the light and is revealed to be a wolf. A lithe and trim wolf with snowy fur and yellow eyes to match her human but she is not as hulking and sleek as the wolves of the CDC guards, her jaws not slavering and snarling. Daegan tentatively touches noses with her and nods to Yennefer so she tosses her curls,

“I’m not a general sort of person. And not every Tartar is part of the CDC. What will you have?”

She buys him his drink and then stands making him ask,

“Are you leaving already?”

“I have to. I need to be somewhere tonight.”

He grins sheepishly, “Well that takes the wind out of a fellow’s sails.”

She arches her eyebrows, “Was that your knight-in-shining-armour act back there? Were you hoping the damsel in distress would repay you with her favour?”

He only shrugs, still grinning roguishly, “Can you blame me?”

Yennefer cannot help herself smiling back but rolls her eyes to make sure he is under no illusions, “Another time, another place perhaps. Tell me your name, that way I know how to find you if I ever decide to look for you.”

“Geralt. And yours?”

“Yennefer.”

Geralt nods, “Another time, Yennefer. I feel certain of it.”

She smiles and tips the brim of her new hat at him, leaving him to his drink and making her way back to the camp.

* * * *

Tissaia knows her clan were behind her when it came to attacking the CDC. Her sisters had been bristling with the sting of her earlier capture and imprisonment, eager to retaliate. That does not stop Tissaia feeling responsible for the deaths, for the bodies that she must chant over and lay on the pyres so they may be released to float up in the smoke to join their daemons and Yambe Akka in the stars. Ideally, they would have flown them North to be burnt under the Aurora but there are Zeppelins patrolling the skies after their aggression towards the Magisterium. It will be no difficulty for Tissaia and her remaining witches to fly past undetected, but the dead cannot be inconspicuous. So, rather than risk being noticed they have decided to join the Gyptians in their funeral in the clearing. Tissaia is secretly glad as it gives her longer with Yennefer. She has enjoyed seeing her in her natural habitat as it were. Not least seeing her without a bulky parka. Here, she is more streamlined, her long legs in tapered trousers, a billowy cotton shirt cinched in around her waist and bosom by her embroidered waistcoat. Even soot-stained and bruised, she is beautiful enough to take Tissaia’s breath away. The witch pulls herself from such thoughts as she leads the procession towards the clearing, making herself focus on the task at hand. The Gyptians have already laid their casualties on the pyres, Yennefer hovering near the one bearing the three men who held the causeway with her. Tissaia watches as the witches add their dead to the logs and then nods at the young Faa who is now commanding the Gyptians. He raises his hand and those who carry the torches set them at the base of the pyres, the flames licking up and catching quickly. Tissaia has already performed the chants that accompany the dead to the afterlife and was expecting to stand in silence, but she hears the melancholy drone of a concertina, an open ringing sound filling the clearing. And then a voice. She turns her head and sees Yennefer standing a little forward, singing something Tissaia cannot understand the words to but she can hear the sorrow in it all the same. Witches do not cry. And their queens certainly do not. Dignified silence is the expected response to sorrow and death. But Tissaia cannot keep the tears from her eyes as she listens to Yennefer sing and she knows this will be what many here remember. Not the dead or the pyres but the sight of a witch queen weeping. Neither copiously nor loudly but unmistakably crying. It is as though Yennefer’s voice is reaching inside to all the places Tissaia has hidden over the years, all the hurts and regrets and loneliness being pulled into the light. Leus runs strands of her hair through her beak to comfort her and glares fiercely at anyone who stares too long. Yennefer finishes singing and steps back into the circle, the silence broken only by the crackling flames and spitting pitch.

Once the pyres are fully alight and smoke is billowing through the trees, the majority of the crowd makes their way back to the camp for the meagre feast that has been scraped together, only a few selected beforehand by lots staying in the clearing to keep vigil. The food might be scarce, the ale watery and thin but Gyptians have a knack for merrymaking and soon the camp is alive with song and dance, cheering and shouting, arm-wrestling and limbo contests. The witches look bemused and out of their comfort zone but Gyptians also have a talent for making people feel at ease. Soon, the pale, barefoot women are mingling with the Gyptians and even getting drawn into various competitions, displaying a frightening aptitude for winning arm-wrestling bouts. Tissaia has perched on a tree stump near the main fire with a horn of ale when Daegan appears and brushes himself against her legs purring, a warm hand landing on her shoulder,

“We may make a Gyptian of you yet, _ves’tacha_.”

Tissaia smiles, “How so?”

“You’ve already cried passionately, kissed a beautiful woman and are now drinking – that’s a good day’s work as far Gyptians are concerned.”

“In truth, I envy you. I had forgotten what warmth and light and noise felt like.”

Yennefer settles herself on the ground at Tissaia’s feet leaning back against her knees, stretching her legs out to the fire, “It’s odd – that is exactly what I enjoy getting away from when we go North. The dark, empty quiet, the stretch of space all around you – it makes me feel like I can breathe properly.”

“Then perhaps the trick is to keep a balance between the two.” Tissaia curls her hand round the back of Yennefer’s neck, rubbing gently, “I said it once before to you and I will say it again – warmth is not a sensation to be easily dismissed.”

Yennefer arches into her hand, sighing in relief as some tension is eased, “I also recall you saying some touches were worth suffering for… is this what you are trying to warn me of? In an impressively cryptic, roundabout way I must add.”

Tissaia raises her eyebrows knowingly, “Do not jest, _Duanna_. I only mean to say you should not lose sight of who you are, who I am. It will spare us both a great deal of suffering in years to come.”

Yennefer replies bluntly, “You mean when I die, and you do not?”

“Yes.”

Daegan shivers and Leus is blinking faster than normal, neither of them enjoying this conversation. Yennefer considers standing up in a huff and storming off but instead reaches into her jacket for the apple she’d pocketed earlier. With her little bone-handled knife she cuts it in half and turns so she is facing Tissaia, kneeling between the witch’s thighs.

“Tonight, we are alive. Perhaps it is wrong when friends have died but all I want is to kiss and touch you until I forget we were ever two separate people.”

She holds out a portion of the apple and Tissaia tentatively takes a bite, chewing as Yennefer murmurs against her ear,

“There are little pleasures in life that are worth more than any number of days. We may not have all the time you would wish but we have now. Will you let that be enough?”

Tissaia feels her heart racing, the apple sweet and sharp on her tongue, the smoke of the fires mingling with something floral and tart drifting up from the soft leather of Yennefer’s jacket. This moment is nothing more than a millisecond in her lifespan but somehow it is enough, it is _more_ than everything else before it. It will not last forever but that only makes it more precious. She turns her head a little so she can press her lips to the crook of Yennefer’s neck and whisper,

“Take me to bed, Yennefer. Let us live.”

And, as they leave the feast hand in hand, Leus and Daegan by their sides, the owl can be heard exclaiming loud enough for all to hear,

“Well thank the stars for that, it’s about bloody time!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months later...  
> Yennefer and Tissaia re-unite after time apart

The river is at that happy level where it is full enough to course at a decent speed but not swelling its banks to the point of being dangerous. It froths and swirls a little, cutting curlicues and ripples into the sand where freshwater meets salt at the estuary. It is here the Gyptians have spent the last week or so. Yennefer is itching to get her boat into the water, but it is lies upended on the beach, the tar on its hull still drying. Rather than wait impatiently, she has decided to take a plane to the edges of the bow, smoothing the wood until it feels like silk beneath her fingers. Daegan is sprawled in the shadow the boat casts, his mouth hanging open to cool himself. He stirs himself enough to caution though,

“You’d better put some more stakes in if you’re going to crawl underneath to reach the rest of the bow. Tissaia will be less-than-impressed if you get squashed.”

“We’ll be dead if I do so it won’t matter if she’s cross with me.”

“You underestimate the force of that woman’s fury.”

Yennefer and her daemon smile at each other, both enjoying having someone to talk about this way. In the four moons since the attack, Tissaia has flown back and forth between the North and wherever the Gyptians find themselves. It has become common knowledge (and is progressing towards local legend) that she and Yennefer are lovers. Yennefer has already heard snatches of new songs being composed in various taverns and round numerous fireplaces, all about the Witch and the Gyptian girl. She lets them continue, secretly rather smug about being the subject of fascination, although she knows Tissaia will be mortified when she finally clocks that the ballads (some epic, some bawdy) are about the two of them. The Gyptians have been unusually static whilst they work to build or buy new boats. Yennefer’s hands are raw and cracked, splinters and little nicks dotted across her palms. Her forearms have scorch marks from the two moons she spent as a journeyman in a forge, hating working for a landloper but needing money to buy what they could not find in the forest. It is at times like this however that the Gyptian values of community and family shine through, no one being left to fend for themselves, everyone doing their bit to ensure the entire group are waterborne before the chill of autumn creeps in. Yennefer pushes through the fatigue and aching muscles. Because if she has a boat, she can trade and if she trades then she can afford a trip North which means getting to spend longer with Tissaia. As she planes little shavings off the planks above her, she hums to herself, pausing every now and then to run her palm along the timber testing the smoothness.

It is here that Tissaia finds her, stretched out on her back with only her lower legs visible beneath the upended boat. Tissaia waits silently enjoying the moment, Yennefer’s bare feet dusted with sand and her trousers rolled up her calves, the steady gentle rasp of the plane and the tune drifting out from under the natural resonator of the boat above her. It is hot on the beach away from the shelter of the trees further up the shoreline where the Gyptians have camped although a light breeze is stirring. Tissaia feels the heat but it is not responsible for the delicate flush across her cheekbones, the shortening of her breath. She always gets this delicious moment of nervous delight when she sees Yennefer again, this reminder that everything is suddenly more when she is with her. Tissaia has hoped it will fade over time, that she will settle into her love for Yennefer. Because (as strange as it sounds) she wants to feel less around her, she wants it to be predictable and familiar rather than new and alive. Because for as long as Yennefer has such a fierce sway over her emotions, Tissaia worries that she will forget how to feel when she loses her. She had promised to live in the moment, to not let the fear of the future weigh heavy on their present. But it is easy for Yennefer to ask that of her – the Gyptian will not be the one who is left behind, the one who must learn how to live without. Tissaia is pulled from her melancholy as Yennefer starts up a bawdy sea shanty in time with her sanding,

“There was but one thing grieved my mind, heave away haul away, to leave that pretty lass behind, I shook her up I shook her down, heave away haul away, I shook her round and round the town.”

“ _I’ll_ shake _you_ my girl if you’re not careful.”

As Tissaia scolds, Leus nips at Yennefer’s bare toes making her yelp then wriggle inelegantly out from under the boat whilst Daegan is already bounding along the sand to rub against Tissaia’s legs. The witch kneels and cups her hands under his chin, bending her forehead to rest against his and sighs as though an ache has been soothed,

“Hello, Daegan. I’ve missed you.”

He purrs loudly in response, his eyes shutting in enjoyment. Leus and Yennefer’s reunion is rather less dignified with Yennefer trying to grab the bird whilst nursing her toes and Leus fluttering out of reach coquettishly.

“You overgrown pigeon! I’ll get you for that!”

Against all odds, Yennefer dives and manages to wrap her arms round Leus, the owl allowing herself to be held. If she wanted to, she could easily break Yennefer’s fingers with a single sweep of her powerful wings. Yennefer strokes down her feathers and bends her head to feel them soft against her cheek, Leus nibbling carefully under her jaw. Having greeted one another’s daemons, Tissaia and Yennefer turn to their own reunion, kissing each other tenderly. Yennefer is about to pull away but Tissaia grips the back of her head and holds her in place, deepening the kiss until they are both dizzy. When they must breathe, Tissaia releases Yennefer’s lips but keeps a tight hold on her as though she is afraid that she will disappear. Yennefer tries to catch her breath and cups Tissaia’s face, searching her,

“What’s wrong? Something troubles you.”

“Don’t mind me. Just a moment of weakness on my part.”

“Emotions are not weakness, Tissaia.” Yennefer strokes her cheeks with her thumbs, “They are life.”

The corners of Tissaia’s mouth tighten, her lips thinning and brow furrowing, and Yennefer is tempted to kiss it away. To crush their mouths back together and burn it all away in the heat of passion. But she senses this is not what will serve Tissaia best. So, she draws the woman into an embrace, cradling her head against her shoulder and wrapping her arms round her. Tissaia stiffens momentarily but softens, sighing and linking her fingers across the small of Yennefer’s back. Trying to still the swell of feeling in her chest she murmurs,

“You make me feel so alive I fear it will be the death of me.”

“No more talk of death. I will not allow it.”

Despite herself, Tissaia smiles against Yennefer’s collarbones “You have some nerve, _Duanna_ , commanding a witch queen.”

Yennefer caresses down her nape with gentle fingers, rubbing at the last of the tension held there, “Then I ask it of you _ves’tacha_. Never hide your feelings for my sake, never control your emotions for fear of looking weak.”

Daegan and Leus are a little way off, watching their humans with interest. Daegan asks,

“Is she always so careful with other people?”

Leus sighs sadly, “Yes.” She pauses but must decide it is acceptable to continue, “We’ve been here before. Once. It didn’t end well.” Leus straightens one of her wing feathers then speaks again, “Tissaia is no coward but she is afraid of hurting.”

Daegan frowns, “Yennefer wouldn’t hurt her.”

Leus shakes her head gently, “She’s afraid of hurting other people, not herself.”

Daegan tilts his head curiously, watching as Tissaia clutches tighter at Yennefer, “She doesn’t realise how strong she is, does she? How she draws people to her?”

“She does but not in the way you mean. She sees her strength, her power, her hold over others, as dangerous. It makes her feel responsible for everyone, everything. That is why she is careful.”

Daegan nuzzles at Leus comfortingly, “That must get lonely.”

“Sometimes.”

Yennefer taps Tissaia to turn her attention to their daemons, “What do you suppose those two are up to?”

“Sharing things we would never talk about ourselves, no doubt.”

“Do you want them to stop? I can ask Daegan not to pry.”

“Leave them. I have found it is best to let daemons themselves be the judge of what they say. Stopping one from doing so can have dangerous, painful consequences.”

Yennefer gives Tissaia a sideways glance, sensing there is more to that statement than purely academic observation. But the witch offers no further explanation so Yennefer lets it be for now. They stroll hand in hand to their daemons and the four of them make their way to the treeline where the camp is set-up.

Faa and Coram both greet Tissaia warmly, heedful of the courtesy due a visiting queen but also familiar enough with her now to drop the stiff formality. The majority of the Gyptians are still a little wary of her but none have forgotten her rescue or the sacrifice of her clan in the fight. And so, although one or two scurry away in fright, most are content to remain round the midday fire and share their fried eels with Tissaia. As is polite, she has brought a gift for Faa, and (as is wise for anyone wishing to befriend Gyptians) it is one that benefits the entire clan. The metal-working skills of the armoured bears in the North is legendary but even they cannot shape the volcanic glass found in the foothills that border Tissaia’s lands. Only the witches’ spells are nuanced enough to manipulate it without shattering. Bolvangar and the Magisterium are constantly searching for technology that will replicate the results but have failed thus far. And so, the glossy black blades and arrowheads Tissaia presents will fetch close to the price of an entire narrowboat. Faa shakes his head,

“It is too much. We are already owe a debt that cannot be repaid, now you offer us this.”

“You will accept it for what it is, Lord Faa, a gift. Given freely.”

It is a mark of the young Gyptian’s strength of character that he inclines his head graciously and is able to still hold it high afterwards. Landlopers may have forgotten the true meaning of gifts but it is still honoured by witches and Gyptians alike. A relic of earlier times before one man could own another, before the concept of money and servitude.

Tissaia and Yennefer spend the afternoon on the beach, Yennefer filling the last grooves in the hull with more tar and knotting some jute to make the anchor rope. It stains her hands, and the little fibres get embedded in her skin, raising painful red bumps. Tissaia frowns but says nothing, focusing on her painting. After insisting that Yennefer let her help, Tissaia had found herself with a tin of green paint and a broad brush, coating the bare planks in the glossy colour. It is oddly soothing, and she begins to enjoy the rhythms of it, the smooth glide of the bristles through the paint. When it becomes too dark to work, they tidy up and return to the camp, the fire and evening meal waiting for them. There are songs and stories afterwards but Yennefer and Tissaia are eager for time alone so leave early, settling into Yennefer’s tent which is pitched further back from the main camp. Tissaia smirks,

“Did you pitch here hoping I’d spend the night?”

“We can move closer if you’d rather give them all a show?”

“Don’t be vulgar, it does not suit you.”

The tent is large enough for them to kneel upright which Tissaia does whilst undoing the ties on her black silks. Yennefer comes up behind her and grips her waist tightly, whispering into her ear,

“The question is does it suit _you_?”

Tissaia would like to pretend that Yennefer saying such things has no effect on her, but the woman’s touch and voice is enough to turn Tissaia into a trembling mess. Yennefer’s fingers take over from hers, untying the wrap-over of her dress and carefully lifting off her crown, setting it delicately to the side. It is always a moment of release when it is removed. Tissaia’s eyes used to linger on it in the corner or wherever it had been placed, but nowadays she is able to forget it, fixing her gaze on Yennefer’s palm skimming across her belly rather than the circlet that represents all her responsibilities. Yennefer’s hand dips between the fabric now gaping below Tissaia’s breasts but Tissaia yelps rather than sighing and Yennefer pulls away in alarm,

“What’s wrong?”

“Sorry. It’s just… your hands… there’s something jagged.”

Yennefer looks ashamed and scowls at her roughened, dirty hands, “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I shouldn’t have tried to touch you with them like this.” She eyes herself with distaste and the resentment that has been brewing over the struggle to rebuild the Gyptian fleet spills over. “I’m so fucking tired of it all!”

Tissaia re-fastens her dress then turns to face Yennefer, “You’ve been so strong, worked so hard. And it’s almost over, you said it yourself, your boat will be in the water tomorrow.”

Yennefer’s anger is still etched in her face though so Tissaia retrieves the small leather pouch attached to her cloud-pine and some water and cloths before settling back in front of Yennefer.

“Give me your hands.” Yennefer shrugs moodily so Tissaia reaches across and grasps her wrists, pulling them into her lap, “There is no shame in accepting help, _Duanna._ You will let me tend your hands.”

Daegan and Leus have been nestled together in a corner but now watch anxiously, acutely aware of the tension threatening to flare into a disagreement. They sigh in relief when Yennefer grudgingly holds out her hands and lets Tissaia cradle them in her lap. Leus murmurs,

“Is she always so stubborn about asking for help?”

“She is afraid of being inadequate. Of not being enough, not being needed.”

“She cannot see how important she is to us? Tissaia was practically shaking at the thought of losing her earlier on.”

“Would you trust that you are enough when your whole life you have been told otherwise?”

Leus ruffles herself and adjusts so she is more comfortably placed between his front paws,

“Yennefer is afraid of not being loved and Tissaia is afraid of allowing herself to love… what have we gotten ourselves into?”

The big cat smiles tiredly, “Something worth the trouble.”

Leus nods and begins her habit of preening his fur with her beak, unwittingly mirroring Tissaia’s ministrations on Yennefer’s hands. She soaks them in warm water until all the horrid sharp fibres have softened and can be removed then pulls some bloodmoss and camphor paste from her pouch. She rubs carefully at first, dabbing the ointment on the grazes and old scorch-marks with gentle touches. As the bloodmoss works to draw out infection and the camphor soothes the pain though, Tissaia rubs with more vigour. Yennefer is certain she will melt with the shivery tingles across her scalp, the heat of Tissaia’s fingers against her palms. She is dangerously close to crying when Tissaia presses her lips to a particularly nasty burn. It is healed now but it will never fade, a constant reminder of the struggle she has had to face. At last, everything is softened and cleaned, the hurts soothed and the anger gentled. Tissaia tidies her healer’s pouch away then returns to kneel opposite Yennefer. She undoes her silks once again and pulls them slowly from her shoulders, smiling knowingly when a noise catches at the back of Yennefer’s throat. The witch reaches for her lover’s hands and presses their palms flat against her abdomen, cupping the curve of her ribcage. She can still feel the callouses, the power in the tendons, but it is a gentle strength, a delicate scrape of toughened skin rather than the ragged edges of before. Yennefer still hesitates so Tissaia presses her harder, arching into her,

“Touch me, _Duanna_ , let me feel all that you have endured.”

Yennefer palms down Tissaia’s torso, skimming her fingertips over the sensitive spots, leaning close to press her cheek against Tissaia’s and murmur,

“It is all so I can be with you, to go North and find the witch queen, it has always been about you _ves’tacha_.”

It is Tissaia’s turn to sound choked and she muffles her whimper by pressing her lips to Yennefer’s neck. Neither of them remembers to extinguish the naphtha lamp so their shadows play across the canvass of the tent making it fortunate that they are some distance from prying eyes. Daegan pauses his nuzzling at Leus to pant,

“Should we blow it out?”

But Leus flexes her claws in his fur possessively and replies in a throaty voice, “No. Let the world see if they want, let them know – there is love here and it will not be shrouded, it will _blaze_.”

And although he is not certain why, her choice of words makes Daegan shiver with what the old Gyptian women would call a ‘tiding’, a forewarning of something to come.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourteen years later...  
> Yennefer and Daegan see more of the North
> 
> NB: Text in italics is a flashback and takes places roughly five months after the end of the previous chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events referenced in the harbourmaster's office are taken from the novella 'Once Upon A Time In The North' which is a delightful prequel to 'La Belle Sauvage' and 'Northern Lights'.

The harbourmaster’s apprentice in Novy Odense has ceased any pretence of subtlety and is now openly staring at Yennefer as she makes her way down the cargo list. She would be flattered but she is aware her days of drawing a young man’s eye are behind her. Tissaia would chastise her for saying so but it is true – she is no longer pretty. It bothers her less than she had imagined it would. No, the boy with grubby nails is staring because he is new and has not yet observed Yennefer when she reads. The harbourmaster himself is well-acquainted with her habits and does not blink an eye as she retrieves the narrow panel of coloured-glass from its lambswool padding and lays it on the yellowed paper before running it down the columns of figures and goods.

“We’re short two barrels of seal-oil and a Winchester.”

The harbourmaster clears his throat disgruntledly, “Hmmm yes… some stock was damaged recently in an altercation.”

Yennefer smirks, “I heard a Panserbjørn and a Texan outwitted the Port Authorities before escaping in a balloon.”

“An exaggeration! A pair of brigands both, causing havoc and disturbing the peace!”

The harbourmaster has gone an alarming shade of puce and trembles with indignation, so Yennefer relents in her teasing but only after Daegan looks reproachfully at her.

“Calm yourself, master. I am content to settle minus the cost of the missing items and leave it there. No need for an insurance hearing – I have business inland that will not wait.”

His relief is visible, and he signs with a flourish, ushering her out the door before she can change her mind. His apprentice grins lewdly as she passes him,

“Business inland? Your invert witch-whore warming a bed, is she?”

Yennefer prepares to cuff him round the ear but Daegan pounces on his scrawny seagull daemon, pinning her tail-feathers with his paw and replies, his nonchalant tone only underscoring the dangerous glint in his eyes,

“The witch-queen warms herself burning the likes of you as one burns seal-blubber. Take care who is listening when next you open your stupid mouth – word travels further than you might think.”

Daegan releases the gull and stalks away, his tail flicking in annoyance. Yennefer smirks as the boy’s eyes anxiously dart about then follows her daemon. She pockets the reading-glass but leaves it unwrapped so she can rub her thumb over it as she walks. Its corners have rounded over the years, its polished surface speckled here and there from frequent exposure to salt-air and cold wind. It still makes her smile recalling how it came to be in her possession.

* * * *

“ _You still haven’t named her!”_

_Tissaia’s admonishment comes before Yennefer has even disembarked from her new boat fresh from its maiden voyage North, its green paint still glossy and unmarked. The witch-queen is not mistaken, the boat still has a blank space where its name should be painted._

_“It’s bad luck to sail without a name, surely?”_

_Yennefer shrugs, “It’s even worse luck to let someone else do the naming.”_

_“You cannot think of a single idea?”_

_“I can think of plenty ideas! I’d need someone else to paint it though.”_

_“Then it is true – you cannot read.” Yennefer pauses her coiling of the anchor rope to look quizzically at Tissaia who grows shamefaced and admits, “I heard the raven boy taunting you after the attack.”_

_Yennefer sighs and resumes her task, “I should have known you were there for the entire conversation, skulking in the corner.”_

_Tissaia splutters indignantly, “I do not skulk!”_

_A grin tugs at the corner of Yennefer’s mouth but it fades as she continues, “That was not Istredd’s finest hour, but he was not wrong – I can neither read nor write. I know my letters; Hen Gedymdeith used to insist we all have our letters and numbers. But they make no sense on the page.”_

_“But your eyesight is perfect. I’ve seen you hit a sparrow in flight at sixty paces.”_

_Yennefer finishes settling the boat into its docking and retrieves her knapsack, “I can see the letters fine, but they move around.” She jumps over the side to land on the quay and reaches for Tissaia to pull her close, “Now, will you stop fussing and kiss me?”_

_Some days later, she and Tissaia are sharing a fire as dusk creeps in, Yennefer stretched out on her back with her head in Tissaia’s lap. She grumbles when Tissaia stops stroking her hair but quietens when she sees the witch is nervously fingering what looks like sea-glass._

_“This is for you.”_

_Yennefer sits up, “What is it?”_

_“I once met a scholar from Babylonia who was studying the oils extracted from Arctic flowers. He had something akin to this when reading. I have had this fashioned after his for you to try.”_

_“I don’t see how coloured glass is going to cure stupidity.”_

_“You are not stupid, Yennefer! I will not allow such talk.” Tissaia hands her a small book with leather binding and well-thumbed pages, “Here, try.”_

_Yennefer sighs but Tissaia has a stubborn set to her jaw and the Gyptian decides it is not an argument she will win. So, she opens the book to a random page and holds the glass above it. Tissaia shakes her head,_

_“Not like that. Lay it on the page with its edge under the line you wish to read.”_

_Yennefer does as instructed and screws up her face in concentration, the familiar dread settling in the pit of her stomach as she waits for the letters to begin their acrobatics across the paper. And then, her eyes widen in disbelief as they instead line up neatly on the edge of the glass, the colour blocking out the glaring white and black that used to make her head spin._

_“I can see them! There are words… what magic is this?”_

_“There is no enchantment, only a piece of glass. The magic is yours; it is in here.” Tissaia taps Yennefer’s temple lightly, “Where it has always been.”_

_Yennefer swallows the lump in her throat and stares hard at the page to make the tears go away. Tissaia moves her hand back from temple to scalp and resumes stroking, winding Yennefer’s curls round her fingers and urging,_

_“Read to me.”_

_And Yennefer does until her eyes are blurry and her voice hoarse. And then, she lays the book aside and traces her finger across Tissaia’s bare back, writing words and letters that have eluded her for years. And when the fire has died to embers and she can no longer see, Yennefer replaces her finger with her tongue, tracing by feel alone until every word she has ever wanted to give to Tissaia has been written. And just when Yennefer thinks there is nothing more that can be said, Tissaia touches her and makes her cry out, desperate joyous words falling from her lips against the witch’s ear as they rock against one another._

_The next morning, Yennefer hands Tissaia a thin paintbrush,_

_“I was thinking ‘North Wind’.”_

_Tissaia protests, “You can do it yourself now. And you said it’s bad luck for someone else to do the naming.”_

_“Only the person who sails a boat should name her, that is true. But a child may name their parents’ boat, a wife her husband’s. It is said whoever names a boat is forever bound to it, will always have a home aboard it…” Yennefer scuffs awkwardly with her toe then reaches for Tissaia’s hand, “I would give you that, ves’tacha.”_

_“A home… with you, for always?”_

_“I understand if you would prefer not. I know you have your duties here with you clan.”_

_“My duty lies here, that much I cannot change. But my heart is yours, my home is us.” Tissaia exhales deeply, as is her habit before making an important decision, “I will name your boat. That way you will always have me with you even if I cannot be there in person.”_

_Yennefer leans their foreheads together, linking her arms round Tissaia’s waist, “I am yours; you are mine.”_

_And so, Tissaia painstakingly traces the words into the green boards, her script characteristic of the witches with its dotted vowels and curling tails. It is growing dark by the time she steps back and appraises her work,_

_“Will it suffice?”_

_Yennefer comes up behind her, hooks her chin over her shoulder to study the name and smiles, “It is everything it should be and more.”_

* * * *

Yennefer double-checks that the oilcloth stretched over the _North Wind_ is secure then turns to Daegan,

“Come on, we’d best not keep them waiting.” She grins at him, “Lest they burn us like seal-blubber.”

Daegan shrugs, “I may have exaggerated but the little snot deserved a good fright.”

The boat looks a little forlorn as they set off inland towards the snowy stretches that border the town. It has been repainted several times in the yeas since it was built, the once glossy green now a deep blue and the flowerboxes sporting red Arctic flowers and green fox-mint rather than summer geraniums. But the flowing script in the scrolled frame still shines brightly, still has the slant of Tissaia’s left-handedness to it. Yennefer dislikes leave her boat moored alone and empty, but it is no longer safe for Tissaia to enter the town with the tension between humans and witches and panserbjørne growing daily, fuelled by the Magisterium’s latest edicts. So, she and Daegan always dock in the harbour then make the rest of the journey to the border on foot or in dogsleds if the weather is unforgiving. Today is clear and calm though so they set off at a brisk pace, Daegan going first to clear a path through with his broad shoulders and firm chest through the larger snowdrifts that sometimes block the way.

They reach the fjord that marks the start of witch-territory a little after noon. They have not gone more than twenty paces from it before two shapes appear on the horizon floating towards them. Yennefer pauses to catch her breath and to ease the ache in her knees that reminds her just how many summers have passed since she first saw Tissaia and Leus flying towards her. Tissaia lands just as gracefully as she did then, nothing about her to suggest the passage of time. She strides towards Yennefer and pulls her into an embrace, heedless of the bulky parka between them, her voice with an unfamiliar tremble to it,

“I was beginning to fear you had forgotten me.”

“I know it’s been longer than usual but how many times must I say it? Some people cannot be forgotten, Tissaia.”

Tissaia says nothing only grips her tighter but Yennefer catches the meaningful look that passes between Leus and Daegan and gets the distinct feeling she is being kept in the dark over something. Tissaia pulls back and runs her thumb over the faint lines between Yennefer’s eyebrows, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the dip round her mouth that is now visible even when she is not smiling. Yennefer quips,

“I am told they make me look wise.”

“They are beautiful.”

Leus flutters up and perches on Yennefer’s shoulder butting her head between the two of them to peer closer at her face,

“Tch! All this melodrama over a few wrinkles! Anyone would think you were at death’s door rather than simply being a few summers older than when we saw you last.”

Yennefer chuckles and turns her cheek to nuzzle at Leus whilst Daegan winds himself round Tissaia’s legs and purrs. They walk together speaking of this and that, falling into an easy silence when there is nothing more to be said. At last, they crest the ridge the surrounds the Keitele’s home ground. No shelters or fires mark it as a place of habitation, the witches needing neither warmth nor sleep. Only the carefully tended clumps of bloodmoss and the carved stones set in spiralling patterns on the ground mark it as a clan’s home. Yennefer and Daegan make their way to the overhanging rocks that have become their bedchamber whenever they visit. The rocks screen the worst of the wind and the witches always have firewood waiting for them there. It is said every witch clan in the North knows when Tissaia has her lover with her, the smoke from the Gyptian’s fire visible for miles in the clear night air.

Said fire has reduced to glowing coals deep in the night when Tissaia shakes Yennefer awake.

“Wake up, _Duanna_.”

Yennefer sits and wipes blearily at her eyes, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. There is something you should see though. Come.”

Tissaia takes her hand and leads her up the slopes of the ridge pulling urgently at Yennefer when she stumbles or drags her sleepy feet. Yennefer mutters curses but swallows her grumbling to stare in awe when they reach the top. The witches are dotted here and there across the snow, some floating on their cloud-pines. On the western slope, Yennefer can see the hulking contours of some panserbjørne, their white fur blending into the snow but the glint of moonlight on their armour giving them shape. And above them all the Aurora ripples in greens and blues, streaks of red here and there, clouds of light and colour blossoming across the dark sky. Tissaia murmurs,

“You timed your visit well. It is but once every twelve winters they shine this brightly.”

Yennefer’s voice is uncharacteristically soft when she responds, “They’re _beautiful_!”

“Would you like to touch them?” Tissaia smiles at Yennefer’s raised eyebrows, “I can take you on my cloud-pine if you like.”

Yennefer wants nothing more than to say yes but she knows Daegan cannot balance on the branch and she will not leave him. It is Daegan who speaks first though,

“Go, Yenna. I’ll run along with you; we won’t be far apart.”

Leus nods in agreement, “I’ll be with him. And if it starts to hurt, Tissaia can fly lower.”

Tissaia wraps a hand round the pine spray grown from the fragment she had saved all those years ago before lighting their first fire then holds out her other arm,

“You’d best hold on tight.”

Yennefer blanches, “We don’t ride the branch?”

“Of course not! It’s not a horse. Come, put your arms round my waist and I’ll keep hold of you.”

If Yennefer were not a stubborn individual with a reckless streak, she would have backed down but instead, she tosses her curls and presses herself against Tissaia,

“Well if you wanted me this close all you had to do was ask.”

Tissaia shakes her head in exasperation and puts her arm firmly round Yennefer’s back, gripping a handful of her parka, “Let us see how much you jest when we are in the air.” Her eyes widen when Yennefer slides a thigh between hers, “And if you keep that up, I’ll be distracted enough to drop you.”

“Then maybe you should give me something else to think about.”

Yennefer realises her mistake when Tissaia grins wickedly and incants “ _An-_ _àirde!”_

Yennefer clutches tightly at the black silk in her grip and watches as her feet lift off the snow, the pine levitating and taking its passengers with it. Tissaia’s uncanny strength has never been more apparent as she supports Yennefer with ease, her small frame carrying the Gyptian’s up and away from gravity’s pull.

“Are you sufficiently entertained to behave yourself now, _Duanna_?”

Yennefer only nods, her breath catching in her throat with the exhilaration and the cold air snapping at her. There is a little tug at her chest as they rise but Tissaia stops before it becomes too uncomfortable and Daegan bounds across the snow underneath them, so the distance between them is never too much. Leus swoops along beside him, looping and swerving as he tries to catch her, their laughter echoing up to where Yennefer and Tissaia are gliding.

“Do you feel it?”

Yennefer can feel the cold, the bite of the air and the crispness of it. But there is something more. As though a feather were tracing along her cheeks and a sunbeam warming her hair through a pane of glass.

“Yes. What is it?”

“It is the world around us. The stars, the dark, the lights.”

“This is what you feel all the time? How can you bear to ever be inside away from it all?”

“All things can be endured for a short time if one knows there is an end in sight. It is eternity that makes suffering unbearable.”

Yennefer glances up at Tissaia and presses gently with her hand on her hip, “Immortality is not the gift many believe it to be then?”

Tissaia smiles sadly and adjusts her grip on the pine branch, steering them past a snowy peak, “The only certainty is that nothing lasts forever, neither suffering nor happiness. Some would call that knowledge a gift.” She shakes herself, “But these are matters for discussing round warm fires with plenty of ale to soften harsh truths.”

As though sensing the melancholy that has settled above them, Leus and Daegan shout up, “First to reach the lake wins!”

And before either Yennefer or Tissaia can protest, their daemons have set off at break-neck speed towards the lake’s edge. Yennefer gasps at the tugging and Tissaia is forced to swap their gentle drifting for a brisk glide. The wind makes Yennefer’s eyes water but it clears the fog that had clouded her mind, the heaviness that settled in her chest at Tissaia’s words. And although the cold is fierce, Tissaia is warm beneath her hands, her bright eyes glinting with the Aurora that dances around them. Yennefer decides it is still the wind that is making her eyes water despite the swell of emotion that fills her chest. When they land on the pebbled shore, Daegan and Leus are already there, panting and windswept but looking very pleased with themselves at winning. Yennefer stumbles a little as she reacquaints herself with gravity but has found her feet by the time Tissaia leans her pine against a boulder and perches herself on the granite, patting its surface inviting Yennefer to join her.

“Are you warm enough?”

Yennefer is but she’s not going to pass up the opportunity to snuggle so she leans against Tissaia and sighs in satisfaction when the witch wraps her arms round her. Daegan slinks over and curls round them, his body heat making everyone cosy. And, not to be outdone, Leus wriggles into the space between Yennefer and Tissaia and croons happily. The lake reflects the Aurora and shimmers across the wet pebbles at their feet making it feel like it is all around them. An unusual airy tune that sounds like wind across the top of glass bottles reaches Yennefer’s ears,

“What is that?”

Leus replies sleepily, “The witches are singing to the lights.”

Tissaia starts to hum along, the sound reverberating in her chest against Yennefer’s cheek and her hand stroking dark hair in a languid rhythm. Yennefer wants to listen, wants every moment of this to be imprinted in her mind, but she cannot keep her eyes from closing. As she watches Yennefer’s face smooth into sleep Tissaia sighs to herself and murmurs,

“Sleep, _Duanna._ There is time enough yet.”

And although it is a lie, Tissaia clings to it because it is a sweet lie.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years later...  
> Yennefer wants more, Tissaia remembers.
> 
> NB Text in italics is a flashback and takes place approximately 170 years before Yennefer was born

The morning fires have not yet been lit and the long grass, drooping with its summer seeds, is beaded with dew, dampening Yennefer’s trouser cuffs as she walks. It is unusual for her to be out of bed this early but Daegan has been restless and they’d lain awake most of the night before finally deciding to get up and do something. Around the boats still smells of the clams fried with hot peppers and green onions of last night’s meal. It had been mouth-watering at the time but now it just makes Daegan feel sick and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. Yennefer rubs his ears soothingly,

“Come on, we’ll go along the canal, that’ll make you feel better.”

He only twitches his tail in response and Yennefer sighs. It is so unlike him to be moody and unreasonable that on the rare occasion it does happen, she is clueless how to deal with him. The air is fresher away from the camp, sweet with the dog-violets carpeting the towpath and the cold soothes the itchy-tiredness of Yennefer’s eyes. She plucks a grass stalk to chew then asks,

“What’s eating at you?”

“Nothing.”

“Daegan, it’s going to be a very long day if you keep pretending that you’re fine.”

“And you always express yourself in a mature and well-adjusted manner?”

Yennefer sighs and picks up the pace, partly to ease her frustration but also to let some space grow between them as Daegan continues to pad along half-heartedly. She glances back after some moments and is alarmed at how far away he is without her feeling the usual tugging in her chest. He looks equally confused at the distance between them and Yennefer strides back to him, pulling her hat off vehemently,

“Enough! This is dangerous! _What_ is wrong?”

Daegan makes a mewling-growly sound and flops onto his haunches,

“I want more.”

Yennefer sits with her back against a tree-trunk and tries to sound patient, “More of what?”

“What are we doing, Yenna? We’re almost fifty and we’ve nothing to show for it. No family, no achievements. No legacy.”

“How can you say we have nothing? And what the blazes is a ‘legacy’ anyway? Anyone I know of who has a ‘legacy’ was an arsehole.”

“It’s something to leave behind, something that shows we were here.” He licks a paw and scrubs it tiredly over his face, “I want more, I want a family, I want to not wake up alone except for the few days where we get to see Tissaia and Leus. I want people to talk about us when we’re gone – I don’t mean Scholars discussing our achievements or milkmaids whispering of our notoriety, I want there to be someone who remembers us.”

Yennefer replies decisively, “Tissaia will remember us.”

Daegan casts a sideways glace at her then slides his gaze nervously away making Yennefer sit upright and demand,

“What are you not telling me? I’ve seen the way you and Leus look at each other whenever Tissaia gets insecure.”

He shuffles his paws and pretends to study a ladybug crawling across them until Yennefer grips him by the scruff of his neck making him snarl but she hisses just as fiercely,

“Tell me! I mean it Daegan, no more secrets.”

“It is not my secret to tell! Please, don’t make me – I couldn’t live with myself if I broke Leus’ trust.”

Yennefer breathes heavily, still clenching her fist in Daegan’s fur. It is possible to force it from him. Daemons have free-will, but most eventually submit to their person in a disagreement and Yennefer has always been the more forceful of them. But she can see the distress in his eyes and feel the trust between them hanging by a thread. Tissaia had cautioned her over dictating a daemon’s actions and Yennefer is not as headstrong as she once was. So, she releases Daegan and (feeling ridiculous for it) bursts into tears, burying her face in his neck like she used to as a child. He is stiff and unyielding for a moment but then mewls and rubs his muzzle against her shoulder, his whiskers tickling her neck. They lose track of how long they sit together slowly reconciling with themselves, reacquainting and reassessing as all people must when they see a part of themselves they did not know existed, one they perhaps do not like very much. Their rumbling tummies eventually win the battle for attention and they make their way back to where the boats are moored.

When she sees the cloud-pine Yennefer’s heart does a little somersault but then she notices the carving on it is not the Keitele’s ridged-clamshell but a five-pointed Arctic starflower. And the stern the pine leans against is not Yennefer’s blue narrowboat but a maroon barge with yellow edging. Yennefer recognises the vessel,

“It would seem the witches of the North are developing a taste for Gyptians. I wonder who Coram has got himself hooked by?”

She grins cautiously at Daegan and he returns her smile slowly, “You make it sound as though he’s been caught like a fish!”

They are quiet for a moment, letting the relief and unspoken apologies behind their jesting settle. Then, Daegan studies the pine spray closely,

“The starflowers are the Lake Enara clan’s emblem, I think. And the branch still has greenwood so she must be younger than Tissaia. There’s a silver band on it – she’s royalty of some kind.”

He gets no further in his deductions as a slim golden-haired witch climbs gracefully from the cabin hatch. She pauses when she sees Daegan with his nose pressed against her pine but smiles warmly when she recognises him,

“I had hoped we would meet Daegan, Tissaia speaks highly of you.”

If he were able to blush, Daegan would be a glowing crimson. Instead his whiskers quiver as he smiles and ducks his head bashfully. Yennefer is about to scoff at him but then the witch turns the full force of her smile on her and she too is reduced to a simpering puddle. Tissaia is beautiful, (Yennefer would pummel anyone who said otherwise) but the witch in front of her is other-worldly. She is tall with soft, delicate features and hair the colour of cornhusk silk, her daemon an elegant snow-goose with dark, clever eyes. Yennefer recovers enough of her wits to remove her hat and greet them,

“ _Fàilte òg-fhlath_.”

The witch betrays no surprise at being hailed in her own tongue nor that Yennefer has used her correct title which translates as ‘young-noble’ but is used for the daughters of witch-queens.

“Yennefer of the _North Wind_.” She raises an eyebrow, “I shall not repeat what Tissaia says of _you_.”

The noise Yennefer makes is nothing short of ridiculous and she curses whatever spell the young witch inadvertently casts on humans. Although the mischievous twinkle in her eyes makes Yennefer wonder whether she flummoxes people intentionally. Daegan is the first to find his voice,

“You have our names, yet we do not have yours.”

The witch bows her head slightly, “I am Serafina Pekkala of the Lake Enara clan. And this is Kaisa.”

The snow-goose spreads his wings in acknowledgement, “I greet you, Daegan. I greet you, Yennefer.”

Serafina picks up her cloud-pine and turns to where Yennefer and Daegan are stood on the bank, “We are North-bound, but I am glad to have met you, we will talk further someday I hope.”

As Serafina prepares to take flight, Kaisa briefly touches noses with Daegan and asks, “If we see them before you, what would you have us say?”

Daegan replies, “Only that we remember.”

Kaisa nods and follows Serafina up into the air, Yennefer and Daegan watching them until they are no more than specks in the distance. The Gyptian pushes the brim of her hat back to better see the snowy peaks at the edge of the horizon and sighs to her daemon,

“Daegan?”

“Hmm?”

“We should go North, shouldn’t we? We need to talk to them.”

“Yes.”

And so, by the time the sun is setting and the crickets are singing in the warm evening air, the _North Wind_ is winding its way along the canal that leads to the main waterway. And although he cannot explain why, Daegan is able to sleep properly for the first time in days.

* * * *

_Tissaia rubs her thumbs above her ears to ease the indentations the circlet is making in her skin. She is not yet accustomed to its weight nor the tightness of it round her brow. It was a mistake leaving her hair loose because the wind is whipping it round her face and ruining any dignity she was still clutching onto after being heckled by a human as she walked through the port. Leus would have clawed the brute’s face to shreds if Tissaia hadn’t tethered the owl to her forearm as a precaution before entering the settlement. Her daemon is slowly mellowing over the years, but she still has a violent, emotive streak, one that Tissaia fights tirelessly to control and subdue. When they were younger it had been a regular occurrence for Tissaia to fly into a rage channelling Leus’ passion. They had nearly killed another witch once and since then, Tissaia has kept a tight reign on herself, choosing to feel nothing rather than allow that all-consuming anger ever again. Leus clicks her beak moodily as they sidestep a pile of fish-guts and horse manure,_

_“I don’t see why we have to trek through this pigsty to see the man who supposedly serves us.”_

_Tissaia replies woodenly, “The Consul is not a servant, he is our ambassador, he protects our interests and negotiates on our behalf.”_

_“We wouldn’t need a Consul if the clans had let your mother burn the first ships carrying this sorry bunch. The humans already have the South, the East, have even crossed the water to the West, why do they need the North? We and the bears have lived in harmony for centuries answering to no one. Now, suddenly we have to bow and scrape to these interlopers?”_

_“We are not bowing to anyone! We maintain our sovereignty, our territories, our way of life. But the clans have agreed we cannot afford war with the humans so, we must learn to live with them. And they have tasked me, tasked us, with fostering this partnership.”_

_“Your mother would never-”_

_“My mother is no longer queen!” Tissaia’s eyes snap and her normally impassive face is full of fervour, “I am! And I will not be dictated to. We cannot risk the lives of our people nor the innocents who will be sent to their deaths by rulers too proud to compromise, I will not be the one who ignites the powder keg!”_

_Leus’ eyes have softened, and she blinks slowly before replying, “There she is. I was worried I had lost you, you never let us do or feel anything now. Not all anger or passion is dangerous, Tissaia. It can be used for good.”_

_“So, you goad me on purpose?”_

_“I do what must be done to remind you that you are powerful, that you are capable of so much more than you allow.”_

_Tissaia sighs and tightens her grip on Leus’ leash as they climb the steps to the Consul’s house in the ever-growing settlement. Last summer there had been nothing but a makeshift camp with sick and exhausted people struggling to adapt to the harsh climate. Now, there are clapboard houses, a stone-walled harbour, a counterweight crane and the beginnings of a cathedral. Tissaia cannot help but admire the tenacity, the survival instinct of the humans even as she watches despairingly how they ravage the land around them. The day the Magisterium official had disembarked from his ship, the settlement had become a province with the laws and customs that allowed no room for women who could fly, bears that could talk, lights that sang. Tissaia learnt the words ‘abomination’, ‘witch’, ‘Almighty’ and ‘territory’ before any others in the strange, clumsy tongue that the humans use. Squaring her shoulders, Tissaia knocks on the door (another word she had learnt, a barrier between a person and the outside world, something she still cannot fathom) and waits to be allowed in._

_She has visited the Consul before, but it is the first time he has not answered the door himself. And it is the first time Tissaia has cause to see a human woman up close. Neither of these firsts are adequate excuse for how quickly the power of speech deserts her. Her hostess does not seem to have the same problem and smiles warmly,_

_“Greetings my Lady, my husband and I bid you welcome.”_

_Tissaia opens her mouth but nothing comes out, so she clears her throat and scowls. The woman’s brow furrows in concern,_

_“Forgive me, I was told you had the common-tongue. I must confess I have none of your own language.”_

_Leus rolls her eyes at Tissaia and replies, “We speak yours, only my other-half here tends to be the silent type.”_

_The woman chuckles at the look Tissaia shoots her daemon and steps aside to usher them in, “We shall need to find something worth talking of then.”_

_Tissaia makes her feet carry her over the threshold, suddenly very aware that they are grubby from walking through the town. Perhaps that is why humans wear shoes, because they live amongst bare earth and dead trees? Once the door is shut, Tissaia undoes the tether holding Leus and the owl ruffles indignantly before landing on the floor to inspect the patterned weaving that covers the bare boards. The Consul's wife almost succeeds in masking her surprise at a leashed daemon but not quite so she hurriedly changes the subject,  
_

_“My Lady, if you would-”_

_Tissaia interjects, “I am no Lady. I am called Tissaia by my people, I see no reason for you to do different.”_

_The woman wilts a little under the harshness of Tissaia’s tone, “I was not certain if such familiarity would be acceptable. It is the first time I have had a queen in my front hall.”_

_Tissaia curses inwardly, she had not meant to sound overbearing, but she cannot remember how to be anything but coldly competent. She tries to soften her voice, “Then we are both new to such matters.”_

_Leus pecks at her ankles and makes her step forward bringing her close enough to see the strands of gold in amongst the human’s flame-coloured hair, to see the dusting of freckles across her nose that white powder and rouge has not managed to conceal. She is taller than Tissaia but not by much and the witch finds herself easing in her presence even though the scent of her is making Tissaia’s head spin. She manages to smile and bats Leus with her foot to silence the approving warble she is making,_

_“How should I address you?”_

_“I am the wife of a Consul and the daughter of an Earl which means I have far too many titles to waste breath on. My name is Astrid Lyttneyd Ásgeirrfinnbjornsdottir.” She grins at the apprehension on Tissaia’s face and lays a hand lightly on her forearm, “But you may call me Coral. As my friends do.”_

_Tissaia usually stiffens at uninvited touches but the warm slim fingers against her skin make her feel like melting into them. She has a sudden, vivid daydream of pressing them against her lips, of feeling them tracing her neck and collarbones and – Leus pecks at her ankle again and she snaps herself from such thoughts. A svelte Siam cat with brilliant blue eyes is now draped across Coral’s shoulders, his muzzle and paws brown against the rest of his creamy fur. Leus flutters up onto Tissaia’s forearm and eyes him curiously whilst Coral introduces her daemon,_

_“This is Aleksander.”_

_Tissaia nods to him and replies, “You’ve already met Leus, of course.”_

_Coral smiles and leads them into the room where Tissaia usually sits to meet the Consul. It has changed since her last visit. Its bare surfaces and uncomfortable rough-hewn stools now cushioned chairs and lacy covers on the table, dried flowers in a vase gracing the mantlepiece. They sit and Coral pours tea from a silver teapot into delicate cups with sprays of roses round the rims. Tissaia picks hers up cautiously and stares in wonder the way it is almost translucent, the gold that has been painted onto the handle, how light it feels in her grip. She has had tea before (humans seem to hold it sacred) but only in clunky tin mugs. Coral asks,_

_“Is something wrong? Too sweet perhaps?”_

_“No. It’s just I have never seen anything like these before, what is it made of?”_

_“It is porcelain, from Siam in the East. The Consul thought me foolish for transporting it all the way here, but I cannot abide drinking out of anything else.”_

_Tissaia takes a tentative sip and it seems to her that it is Coral herself she is drinking from. The pale elegant skin, the rosy hues, delicate and refined, warm from the inside out. She glances down at her own black silks, the tangled dark mess of her hair, the crown that does not fit her and her dirty feet and feels suddenly very shabby. Coral does not seem to come to the same conclusion however as she gazes at Tissaia and murmurs,_

_“You’re so elegant and mysterious-looking – I can quite see how the first settlers thought you magical beings.”_

_“Magical?”_

_“The stories I’ve heard of your people, all exaggerations of course, but you wouldn’t believe some of the nonsense that travels back to us in the South. Some say you can fly, others that you talk to animals, even that you can control the weather.”_

_Coral laughs brightly and shakes her head in amusement but Aleksander nudges her when he sees Tissaia going bright red and Leus shuffling uncomfortably._

_“You don’t mean to say those tales are true?”_

_Coral looks both horrified and intrigued and Tissaia knows it is a risky move but something in her wants to impress the woman. So, she crosses to the windowsill and retrieves the vase of dried flowers, setting it on the table. She cups the deadheads in her palms and mutters the incantation under her breath, waits a moment then pulls her hands away to reveal fresh flowers, vibrant and sweet. There is deathly silence and Tissaia tenses, readying herself to escape if they try to burn her or drown her or whatever else they might decide is the best way to dispose of a witch. But then, Coral reaches to caress a petal and smiles in wonder,_

_“What else can you do? Show me!”_

_And because Tissaia wants more than anything to see that smile again, she shows her everything in the years that follow._

* * * *

The summer sky is still bright when Yennefer and Daegan cross the fjord even though it is late in the day. They are weary having barely stopped since leaving the Anglian canals but being this close to their destination puts a spring in their step. It takes longer than usual for the shapes to appear on the horizon and as they draw closer, Daegan squints and looks worried,

“Something’s wrong, Yenna.”

“Why? What can you see?”

“It’s what I can’t see. There is only Leus, Tissaia is not with her.”

“Perhaps she’s busy and sent Leus to meet us. You know they can separate.”

Her optimism fades however when Leus lands and she sees the owl’s dull eyes. Yennefer kneels, heedless of the snow soaking her trousers,

“Leus, are you alright? Where’s Tissaia?”

The owl runs her wingtip down Yennefer’s cheek, “I’m sorry, Yennefer. She won’t listen to me. Maybe she’ll listen to you though, come I’ll take you to her.”

“Sorry for what? What the fuck is going on? Tell me now!”

Leus glances at Daegan who nods then she sighs, “She has decided it is time to forget. She always makes them forget eventually.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer confronts Tissaia and is finally told the truth  
> Warning: depicts death of minor character

Ignoring both Daegan’s attempts to calm her and Leus urging caution, Yennefer storms into the Keitele’s home ground with her eyes flashing and fists clenched. Tissaia’s face crumples when she sees her, but Yennefer does not let it dissuade her from grabbing the witch by the upper arms and demanding,

“You would make me forget you? How?”

Tissaia’s eyes flick up to meet hers, “There is an enchantment, a stronger version of the one we use to appear inconspicuous.”

Yennefer shakes her, “You admit it then? You were going to forcibly take my memories of you, make me forget we ever met? How dare you even think it!”

“It is meant as a kindness, _Duanna_.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that! You gave me that name the night you showed us how to get home, you smiled at me, made me fall in love with you.”

Tissaia retorts, her eyebrows knitting together, “You should never have remembered that night! It should have been the end of things. I tried to let you go but _you_ came looking for _me_. Do not lay the blame for this solely at my feet!”

Yennefer scoffs in disbelief and turns sharply to glare at Leus,

“You said ‘she always makes _them_ forget’ – we are not the first human you have loved?”

There is a weighted pause before Tissaia sighs,

“No.”

Yennefer spins back to her and smiles nastily, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “So that’s it, you have your pleasure with us and then make us forget when you grow tired of us, when we are no longer young and beautiful. Do I no longer service you as required, my queen?”

The hurt flashes in Tissaia’s eyes a split-second before her palm makes contact with Yennefer’s cheek, Leus hissing and fluttering as Yennefer’s head snaps back with the force of the slap. Daegan growls and lashes his tail, only a lifetime’s practice of managing Yennefer keeping him from pouncing. Tissaia’s voice is throaty with anger, the wind starting to pick up as her emotions spill out into the elements she can shape,

“You know _nothing_! How dare you insinuate I treat you as a plaything? Do you imagine I will have another in my arms even as they burn your body in its boat? You cannot begin to fathom the suffering I have borne keeping those I love from harm.”

Whatever cutting response Yennefer is planning is overridden by Daegan interjecting,

“Explain it then! Make us understand why you think it a kindness to rob us of our time together.”

Tissaia seems to swither, fighting an internal battle for some moments before shutting her eyes, exhaling and then opening them again, “We will talk. But first, you need a fire.”

With the initial heat of her rage cooling, Yennefer shivers and has to admit the witch is right. Her trousers are soaked from earlier, her hood blown back in the wind stirred by their argument and her fingers numb from gripping Tissaia’s arms so tightly. She releases her and scowls to hide her shame when she sees the bruises blooming around Tissaia’s biceps,

“Fine. But if you try any tricks, I swear I will use this.”

Yennefer draws the little bone-handled knife she still carries but does not specify on whom or how she will use it. Tissaia eyes it warily, the steel glinting and sharp, and she nods,

“No enchantments. Nothing until we have spoken.”

When the fire is lit and they have settled uneasily around it, at opposite ends rather than side-by-side as they usually do, Tissaia folds her hands in her lap and begins,

“I wish to erase your memories of me now while there is still time for you to find another happiness, to make something more of your life. I know what I can give is not enough.” She looks knowingly at Daegan, “Yes Daegan, I have seen the restlessness in you. And I do not begrudge it.”

He protests, “I want more but I want it with _you_!”

Tissaia raises her hand to hush him and continues, “It must also be done now because otherwise it will happen when we are unprepared, when it is too late to make a clean break.” She pauses and twists her fingers nervously, something akin to shame creeping into her features, “The night we left you at your camp, a child and her daemon who we thought never to see again, I cast the incantation meant to cloud your recall of us. We should have become nothing more than a half-remembered dream.”

Daegan is quicker to understand than Yennefer and he mewls, but Yennefer insists, “It didn’t work though, we remembered you, we still do.”

Leus sighs, “Spells are like any form of energy, they do not vanish or disappear. They can be transferred or delayed but they still exist. There is every chance you will come to forget us slowly in fragments as time goes on. Such enchantments are unpredictable at the best of times.”

Realisation dawns on Yennefer’s face and she slumps with her head in hands, “That is why you are always so relieved when we appear? You have been waiting for your spell to take root, never knowing if or when it will.”

Tissaia reaches tentatively towards her and lifts her chin back up to meet her eyes, half-expecting to be stabbed with the knife still clutched in Yennefer’s hand. Yennefer allows the touch though and holds her gaze as Tissaia murmurs,

“I have finally found the courage to admit it is selfish to wait and hope, I will not stand by and watch as you gradually lose your mind, confused one moment but painfully aware of what has been lost the next. Better to forget all at once and be free of us.”

“But why? Why cast such magic in the first place?”

Tissaia drops her hand and turns back to the flames, worrying her lower lip with her teeth and Leus starts to run her beak through her hair, a sure sign that she needs comforting. Yennefer hardens herself against Tissaia’s distress and gears up to demand an answer but Daegan glares at her and she bites her tongue. After some moments, Tissaia clears her throat and replies,

“That is a long story but perhaps it is time I told it. The first humans came North almost two hundred years ago and with them came new ideas and rules, wondrous inventions, strange languages…”

* * * *

_Coral runs her finger under the word Tissaia has written and tries to pronounce it,_

_“An-airde, an-ardee”_

_Tissaia shakes her head and says it slower, enunciating every syllable,_

_“En-ars-cheh. It means ‘upwards’.”_

_Coral huffs in frustration, “It sounds nothing like how it’s written!”_

_Tissaia raises an eyebrow, “I could say the same about your words.” She starts to tick them off on her fingers, “For example, ‘frighten’, ‘thoroughly’, oh and then there’s the whole muddle of ‘knee’ and ‘knife’ and ‘know’… what’s the point of the ‘k’?”_

_Coral smiles and holds her palms up, “Alright, I concede.” She returns her attention to the word, “So, if I said this and held your cloud-pine, I would fly?”_

_“I don’t know. I’ve never tried it with anyone who isn’t a witch, I suspect there is more to it than just the words and the branch.”_

_Coral stretches a kink from her neck, making her bosom strain against her corset and the lines of her throat open up so Tissaia looks away. Their daemons are sprawled in front of the fire and chatting quietly until a raucous hoot from Leus makes everyone jump and Tissaia shoots her a disapproving glance, but Aleksander chuckles as does Coral. She eyes Leus thoughtfully and asks,_

_“Are all witches’ daemons-”_

_Tissaia interrupts bluntly, “No, most are male. Leus being female is not a taboo in our culture but I am quickly learning it is one in yours.”_

_Coral frowns at her, “I was going to ask if all witches leash their daemons, I couldn’t care less whether she is female. Not all of us are as close-minded as the Magisterium, Tissaia.”_

_Tissaia fidgets with the cup and saucer in front of her and Coral reaches out, laying her fingers on Tissaia’s to still them, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry or make you uncomfortable.”_

_“Leashing is not common practice amongst witches. I do it because control is safer, because it helps keep us balanced.”_

_Aleksander and Leus have come closer, eager to hear this conversation, Leus awkwardly dragging the leather cord on her leg. Tissaia reaches down to lift her onto the table and strokes her head,_

_“We feel too strongly at times, it is easier to reign those feelings in if Leus is tethered.” She smiles sadly at her daemon, “She pushes me further than is wise.”_

_Coral frowns, “Have you ever considered that she pushes you because you need it? That perhaps if you released her, you would find a balance between you?”_

_The Consul’s wife slowly reaches out towards Leus’ leg and everyone stills in nervous anticipation, Tissaia hardly able to breathe as her fingers carefully undo the knot. Coral is meticulous in not actually touching Leus, but the intimacy of it still makes Tissaia’s head spin, exacerbated by the warm weight of Coral’s other hand still resting on hers. The tether falls away and although she knows it is only a piece of leather with no enchantments within it, Tissaia feels everything inside her rising to the surface all at once. Before she can stop herself, she has leant forward and pressed her lips against Coral’s. It feels like an eternity as she waits for the woman to reciprocate but Coral’s mouth is cool and still beneath her own, a stiffness in her body and Tissaia finally pulls away, sick with shame and rejection. Coral fidgets with a fold in her skirt and gives a forced laugh,_

_“Goodness, it would seem there was a great deal of feeling waiting to be let loose.”_

_“Forgive me, I thought…”_

_She fixes Tissaia with her eyes, a finality in her voice that allows no argument, “There is nothing to forgive, nothing happened, we will never discuss this again. Nothing of any importance has passed between us, do you understand?”_

_Tissaia nods and replies bitterly, “I understand perfectly.” She stands abruptly and motions for Leus to join her, “We take our leave, madam. I shall not visit without first sending word so you may avoid us if you wish.”_

_Coral does not stand to show them out and raises her chin defiantly against the disdain in Tissaia’s voice, “I think that would be best.”_

_As they stride through the settlement, Tissaia uses the anger to smother the sadness and by the time they have reached the home ground there is a storm brewing. The other witches exchange knowing glances because it is a truth well known; a witch’s love is fierce. Tissaia ignores them, letting her emotions skew the weather, no longer caring if it is the wise or responsible choice. When they are alone at last, she whirls on Leus,_

_“Are you satisfied? Was that spontaneous enough for you?”_

_“Calm down, you’re going to drown anyone at sea if you keep this up, look at the waves!”_

_“Let them drown! Let their whole forsaken town turn to driftwood and her precious cups be smashed to pieces!”_

_“Listen to me! She wants you too, she’s afraid that’s all. You were right to show her how you felt, that was a good display of emotion. This, what you’re doing right now, is not.”_

_Tissaia breathes heavily and clenches her fists before ripping a strip of fabric from her hem and reaching for Leus who screeches and flaps her wings,_

_“No! You need to find another way to control, to be balanced, I will not be leashed again! You need to trust me, to trust yourself. You are so much stronger than you believe, shutting your emotions down is not controlling them, it is adding fuel to the fire.”_

_The storm that lashes the settlement is talked of for weeks to come, remarkable not just in its ferocity but in how suddenly it died down. As though some raging deity had suddenly had a change of heart and calmed itself. Coral smiles tightly and joins in the superstitious gossip all the while knowing they are closer to the truth than they imagine. She does not know how or why Tissaia regained control of herself, but she trembles to think what would have happened had she not. It is nearly two moons past before she next sees her and the torrent of emotions that cross the witch’s face when Coral opens the door is dizzying to watch. She notices at once that Leus is perched on Tissaia’s shoulder rather than tethered to her forearm and it makes them look noble, powerful, wholly one entity. Something has changed between them, but Coral cannot begin to guess what, she only knows Tissaia has never looked so regal and poised._

_“Mistress Consul, I did not expect to see you here. My business is with your husband.”_

_“I thought it time we spoke, I have wanted to-, I find myself-”_

_Coral trails off and waits hopefully but Tissaia is resolutely silent, her icy-blue eyes unreadable. Clutching at Aleksander and the doorway for support, Coral takes a deep breath and speaks,_

_“I cannot think of anything but you, you are with me every time I close my eyes, every book I read, every song I hear, you are everywhere. And it is driving me insane.”_

_Tissaia gestures inside, “Such matters are not for discussing on front steps.”_

_Coral steps aside to let them in and shuts the door, leaning against it, “Tissaia it is not some infatuation or a curiosity, my feelings are real. I acted in poor taste last time, it was cruel of me to dismiss you so, but you must understand, I cannot… the danger it would put me in.”_

_“I understand, that is why I have kept away from you, to reassure you that there is nothing to fear from me. I will not pursue what you are not willing to give.”_

_“But that is the whole problem do you not see? I am willing, I am aching!”_

_Tissaia is silent for a moment and then offers, “I can make it all go away. There is a spell, you would forget. It would be easier for you.”_

_“But you would remember?”_

_Tissaia nods, every ounce of her willpower being used to keep from pressing Coral against the door and kissing her until she is breathless. The careful façade she had arrived with is rapidly crumbling and Coral must sense it because she steps closer and asks softly,_

_“You would do that for me? Resign yourself to memories whilst giving me a clean slate, why?”_

_It is easier than Tissaia had imagined it would be to say the next words, “Because I love you.”_

_Coral presses her hand to her mouth and furrows her brow, fighting the opposing forces of her head and heart before coming to a decision,_

_“No, forgetting is the coward’s way, I will not lose you for the sake of their rules. Hang them all, I want you.”_

_And this time, when Tissaia’s mouth covers hers she moves her lips in response, her hands stroking through long dark hair and their daemons intertwining joyfully._

* * * *

The fire has died to coals and Yennefer stands to add more logs, stirring the ruby chunks coated with powdery ash to life once more. Her stomach growls so she ferrets in the deep pockets of her parka for the apple she’d bought in Novy Odense. She had planned to feed it to Tissaia, to have it be the start of their lovemaking that night but now she carves it into pieces silently. Daegan looks at it meaningfully and jerks his head towards where Tissaia and Leus are sitting, Yennefer scowls but relents when he headbutts her. She clears her throat awkwardly and crouches next to Tissaia, holding out some pieces for her. Tissaia takes them, their fingers brushing momentarily, and nods,

“Thank you.”

“I’m always your Eve it would seem, handing you the apple of temptation.”

Tissaia looks blank and Yennefer shrugs, “The fall of Eden, a Magisterium teaching. It is how evil came into this world; it was the original sin.”

Leus scoffs, “An apple damned the whole of humanity?”

Yennefer smiles despite herself, “It’s more complicated than that. Or so they say, if you believe that sort of thing.”

Tissaia tilts her head curiously, “You do not believe in your Almighty, in the Magisterium?”

Yennefer shrugs, “I have seen so much more than what can be encompassed in their teachings. You witches for starters. And the panserbjørne, the jacky-lanterns and will-o-the-wykes in the swamps, Father Thames and the river spirits… If the Magisterium does not know the truth of what is right before their eyes, then how can they hope to know the truth of the invisible?”

“So, where do you believe you will find yourself after dying? Where do humans go if not to Heaven or Hell?”

“Well, where do witches go?”

Tissaia smiles a little and points up at the jewellery-box of diamonds and opals in black velvet above them, “Yambe Aka takes us to the stars, the stars are the souls of those who have died before us.”

Yennefer stretches her legs out, crossing them at the ankle, not moving away from Tissaia like she had planned to, “That sounds nice, I’d like that. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up in a swamp as a jacky-lantern though.”

Daegan lifts his head from his paws, “I think we become part of everything, we become the wind, the water, the sunlight. Daemons dissipate when a person dies, they float up into the sky. We cannot be parted in life, so it makes sense that you would follow us in death no? Your bodies stay behind but you come with us and become something new in the world.”

Yennefer bites an apple slice, “Well, I shall definitely end up in a swamp if that’s the case.”

Tissaia replies, “No, you will become the wind, that way you can blow through the skies where I will be, and we can be together.”

There is a heavy silence for some moments, the air thick with unspoken feeling until Yennefer sighs and scrubs her hand down her face tiredly, turning to Tissaia,

“I still don’t understand why you felt it was necessary to cast the enchantment that night. You say you offered to do the same for Coral and she refused, that in fact it led to her reciprocating your feelings.”

“It did. And we were happy for a time, stealing kisses in the hallway, sharing books with love letters secreted inside. But I could not find excuses to always be calling on the Consul and she had no cause to be leaving the town. She grew reckless, slipping away in the night to visit me, became cold towards her husband who was nothing but a kind, decent man. And, without telling me, she began to practice the spells I had shown her. To no avail of course, there is something within us that is essential to the magic and it is not found in humans. I believe she thought if she managed to learn enough of our ways, she could become one of us, become a witch and leave the settlement.”

Tissaia pokes at the fire with a twig, jabbing at it as though it has insulted her. She swallows as is her habit when tamping down anger or pain, but she still cannot speak so Leus picks up the story.

“They caught her outside one night in the full moon with herbs. She’d been visiting us, and we’d given her some medicinal plants, for toothache, nothing magical about them. Any country-wife would know them in a field and know their use. The priests did not see it that way though. And when they found her incantations and ideograms written down, the ones we had taught her, it sealed her fate. She could no more do magic than the priests accusing her could, but she was convicted of heretical, unnatural practices. And when it came to light that she was friendly with the local abomination-queen, well, that was the final straw.”

Yennefer knows the sentence for a conviction of heresy, and she reaches for Tissaia’s hand,

“You don’t have to say it.”

Tissaia throws the twig onto the fire and glares at it, tears on her cheeks,

“They burnt her. Tied her to a stake and set fire to her. The smell carried as far as the home ground, you could see the smoke from here. I loved Coral and I thought I showed it by allowing her to remember, but my own selfishness cost her everything. Loving her would have been making her forget.” She turns and cups Yennefer’s face right where a welt is throbbing from her earlier slap, her eyes fluttering with regret when she sees the bruising beneath her fingers, “It is dangerous for humans to grow close to witches, _Duanna_ , it is the way of things. You cannot blame me for wanting to keep a Gyptian child from ever seeking us out again, especially one as curious as you were.”

Yennefer turns into the palm that cups her cheek, pressing her lips to Tissaia’s wrist, “I cannot hate you for it. But I will not allow you to do so again. It is not your decision to make, you do not have to protect me. I choose to remember, to love you, just as Coral did. That does not make you responsible for our fates. You will not make me forget.”

Tissaia starts to protest but Yennefer presses her fingers to her lips, hushing her just as Tissaia used to when Yennefer was child with too many questions,

“I am yours, you are mine, remember? Nothing takes that from us, _vest’tacha_ , not even Time itself.”

Tissaia leans their foreheads together, “And if you get burnt playing with fire?”

Yennefer smiles darkly, the firelight reflecting in her violet eyes, “ _We_ are the fire, Tissaia, it is the world who will burn if they are not careful.”

And as Yennefer’s hands find and caress her, Tissaia gasping and clutching, Daegan growling as Leus quivers beneath him, the last log in the fire gives way suddenly, crashing into the coals and sending sparks flying into the air, flickering light and heat blazing in the cold and dark of the North. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years later...  
> All things must end.  
> Warning: Depicts major character death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance for any broken hearts. Anyone who knows the HDM books will see I have taken liberties with the lore, this is to avoid spoilers for those who have not yet read the books. There are references to events in both La Belle Sauvage and The Northern Lights but nothing spoilery and hopefully nothing that makes this particular story incomprehensible if you haven't read HDM!

Tissaia clutches at her sides and tries to catch her breath, glaring at Yennefer when she chuckles and pokes her in the ribs,

“I’m the one who’s turning sixty, a spry thing like you should have no trouble keeping up!”

“I may look forty, but I’ll have you know I’m almost four hundred years older than you!”

Yennefer twists her face into an exaggeratedly concerned expression, mischief sparkling in her eyes, “Well maybe you should sit the next one out.”

Tissaia straightens up, her pale cheeks sporting a rosy glow and arches her eyebrows, “If you think I’m letting anyone else dance with you then you’ve got another thing coming.”

Yennefer grins, her breath hitching as Tissaia pulls her by the hand to stand close together, the witch locking an arm round her waist.

“I love it when you get all possessive, you know that?”

Tissaia hums against her ear, “You’ve mentioned it once or twice. Now, less talking, you need to save your breath for later.”

Yennefer laughs out loud because it is such a rarity for Tissaia to be the one making suggestive comments and because as they start to circle the fire to a mazurka she cannot contain the swell of happiness that bubbles up from her chest. She had resisted the idea of a name-day party at first. But her birthday coincided with the Gyptians’ trading-trek North and the witches’ fire-festival of Bealtaine, so it seemed a shame to miss out on getting both groups together again. The clan and the family have not mingled on such a large scale since the attack almost thirty years ago and the younger Gyptians stare in awe at the women who have until now only been fairy-tales. For her part, Tissaia throws caution to the wind and spins Yennefer faster and faster, her laughter pealing over the concertina and banjo, not caring who sees her like this. It is as though every year that passes makes her more determined to wring every last drop out of their moments together. She has even abstained from attending a Coven, sending her second-in-command, Sara Leiro, instead. Had anyone told her she would one day delegate her duties so that she may attend a party, Tissaia would have laughed in their face. Yet here she is, tipsy and leaping into the air like a dervish, Yennefer’s hands round her waist making her feel she could fly with no incantations or cloud-pine. The mazurka ends and Yennefer wipes her brow with her sleeve,

“Gods woman! You’re like a sandstorm, I thought you may set fire to yourself you were spinning so fast in that one.”

“Remind me, who was calling whom old?” Before Yennefer can wise-crack in response, Tissaia kisses her briefly but fiercely then smirks at her, “You sit and catch your breath, I’ll fetch us some ale.”

Yennefer huffs but calls out after her, “Not that horse-piss, get us a bottle of rum!”

At the barrels and casks, Tissaia finds Coram who removes his hat and does his best to smile but it does not reach his eyes. Tissaia lays a hand gently on his forearm,

“Yennefer tells me you have been made the new Farder, I can think of no one better for the job.”

“It seems just when I have lost my own child and thought never to be called ‘Father’, I am named Farder to the family. They will be my children now to steer and counsel, to care for and protect. As your clan are to you is that not so, _banrigh_?”

Tissaia leans against a barrel, “Serafina gave you our words I see.”

Coram looks at the ground and clenches his fists, “Amongst a great many other things.”

“I was beyond sorry to hear of the death of your son. She mourns him still.”

Coram clears his throat and meets her gaze, “As do I. I would have us grieve together but Serafina prefers solitude for her sorrow.” He fidgets with brim of his hat then sighs, “Tell me, is she well? She will not answer my letters.”

Tissaia chooses her next words carefully, “She was hale the last time I saw her, but I would not say she was well. She spends a great deal of time with her mother, learning the ways. Perhaps her duty and the thought of succession is what drives her to endure. Much as your new position is giving you purpose.”

Coram laughs tiredly, “She used to say you were a skilled diplomat, finding ways to tell people what they need to hear.” He grows serious again, “My new position has put me in league with organisations who have their ears to the ground. There are whispers, Tissaia, the Magisterium is plotting. They are moving slowly, insidious and creeping, but they are advancing – the Colleges are soon to be censored, free-speech is becoming a currency. It will reach you here eventually, it may take years, but they will come. You must be ready when they do.”

Tissaia frowns, “They may be here already, the station at Bolvangar is busier than ever. I must confess it unsettles me.”

“You are right to be cautious. If ever you need help, or to judge whether a person is a safe contact, use the words ‘Oakley Street’. Anyone worthy of your trust will know what it means.” He puts his hat back on and reaches for a bottle of rum, handing it to her with a smirk, “If I know Yennefer, she’s got a hankering for some of this. Go to her, tonight is not the time for politics or sad thoughts.”

Tissaia is not overly-affectionate as a rule but she stretches up on tiptoe to kiss Coram’s cheek, “Thank you. Promise me you will be careful, Serafina may yet find the courage to return and you will be no use to her in a Magisterium cell.”

Coram nods but it does not escape Tissaia that he does not actually promise, and she sighs. It never ceases to amaze her how reckless humans can be with their short, fragile lives for the sake of some ideals. She returns to Yennefer and finds her playing pin-finger with a Gyptian youth, their fingers splayed on an empty barrel and knives jabbing in between at lightning speed. Yennefer beats the boy by a full second and she crows,

“I’ve still got it! Let that be a lesson, you whippersnapper!”

“ _You_ challenged _me_ , Baba Yennefer!”

Yennefer glances guiltily at Tissaia and shoos the boy, “Shush! You’ll get me in trouble.” She tosses a silver at him “Here, use that to get yourself a better knife and I’ll consider a rematch.”

He grins and runs off whilst Tissaia settles herself with her back against the barrel and pats the ground next to her. Yennefer sits and hums in satisfaction when Tissaia snuggles closer, resting her head on her shoulder. She hands her the rum and Yennefer uses her knife to cut the wax seal and prise the cork free. She glances around,

“There’s no cups.”

Tissaia shrugs, “I have no qualms sharing the bottle if you don’t.”

Yennefer laughs, “I have succeeded in corrupting you. You played truant from a Coven, you were whooping like anything when we were dancing and now, you’re drinking straight from the bottle?”

Tissaia glares but the smile tugging at her mouth betrays her, “It is high-time Sara Leiro learns the ropes as my apprentice. And it is simply bad manners to call a Coven during Bealtaine. And as for drinking from the bottle it is hardly the most daring thing I’ve ever done.”

Yennefer waggles her eyebrows, “Oh no? Do tell!”

Leus chuckles from her customary perch on Daegan’s back where he has slumped in front of the fire, but the owl does not divulge any details and returns her beak to Daegan’s fur. Tissaia glugs from the bottle, shivering as the rum hits her belly and warms her.

“I can’t believe in all the years we have known each other, you never told me you were born during Bealtaine.”

Yennefer accepts the change of subject with a knowing smile, her hand settling in the small of Tissaia’s back as they slump comfortably against the barrel. There was a time she would have pressed for details, but she has learnt to give Tissaia the space she needs before confiding something about her past. Tissaia takes another drink then muses out loud,

“I shouldn’t be surprised really. You were born on a night of fire _Duanna_ , that much is plain to anyone who knows you.”

“The old women used to say landlopers were made of clay and witches had fire in their soul but that Gyptians were water people, their daemons creatures of the forests and rivers. It is why Daegan’s shape used to trouble them, ‘not enough water in her veins’ they used to say.”

Daegan twitches his ears at being discussed but is too content with Leus preening him to make a more vigorous movement.

Tissaia is quiet for a moment then confesses, “I was there when he settled, you know.”

This makes Daegan lift his head and Leus blinks apprehensively, uncertain of Yennefer’s reaction when Tissaia has just admitted to being as good as a peeping-tom. It is Daegan who speaks first,

“What was it like?”

“You sort of glowed, turned translucent and rippling, like moonlight in fog. And then there you were, beautiful and whole… we did not mean to spy, we’d come to make sure you did not settle as the owl but then I touched Yennefer and you started to change and it was too late to leave… I did not _want_ to leave.”

Tissaia bites her lower-lip and twists her finger anxiously but Daegan and Yennefer catch each other’s eye then start to laugh. Leus flaps indignantly,

“I don’t see what’s funny!”

Yennefer reaches for her and pulls her close, resting her cheek against the silky feathers on her head, “Oh Leus, it’s just we’ve worried for years that something was wrong with us, that there was some sinister reason for Daegan being such an unusual shape. But now we know, there is fire in us because you put it there.” She releases Leus and turns to Tissaia, framing her face in her hands, “The night we met was the first time Daegan took that shape, and he never took it again, not until he settled. I always thought it odd but now… You were the common factor, _ves’tacha_ , you are the fire in my soul, the hands that shaped my daemon.”

Tissaia flushes, a little frown creasing her forehead, “I’m not certain it works that way, you-”

She gets no further as Yennefer kisses her, Tissaia melting into the heat of her, her fingertips scorching. Tissaia moans into her mouth, fisting her hands in Yennefer’s hair and arching involuntarily. A bottle smashes and yanks her back to reality so she pulls away panting and with swollen lips. Daegan has started the deep rumbling purr he reserves for Tissaia, his paws flexing with longing and Leus’ chest is visibly rising and falling, her eyes wide and the orange irises snapping bright. Tissaia stands and holds out her hand,

“Make love to me, _Duanna_ , there is no better night for it than Bealtaine.”

Yennefer stands and they cross the snow to their tent, hands linked lest they stumble in the dark after the glow of the fire. As soon as she has fastened the tent flap, Yennefer feels Tissaia sliding her arms round her from behind, her fingers unfastening the buttons on her embroidered waistcoat, her mouth hot and damp against her neck. Yennefer teases,

“Eager?”

Tissaia bites gently in response whilst pulling layers off her until she is only in her formal shirt with the billowy sleeves and laced neckline. She turns her so they are face to face and guides Yennefer’s hands to the ties on her silks as she pulls the laces that undo the shirt to just below Yennefer’s breasts. It had taken reassurance and scolding in equal measure for Yennefer to stop fretting over her ageing body, Tissaia still treating it with the same reverence as she did thirty years ago. Even now, Yennefer still hesitates momentarily as Tissaia reveals more of her, but any doubts disappear when Tissaia bends her head to suck below her collarbones with a hungry look in her eye. Yennefer’s head falls back, and she opens her mouth in a silent gasp, running her fingers through Tissaia’s hair, her hands encouraging her to move lower. Tissaia pulls the opening of the shirt wide and latches onto a nipple, humming in approval as Yennefer arches her back, the movement filling more of Tissaia’s mouth. Yennefer loses herself in the sighs and touches, the line of Tissaia’s limbs and the heat of her mouth, shivering when Tissaia reaches across the tent and grips Daegan, pulling their daemons closer. It is unusual for daemons to be active participants during intercourse, they have their own form of interaction and intimacy that takes place in parallel with their people’s coupling. But there is something fierce and possessive, almost desperate, in Tissaia’s passion tonight. And Daegan must sense it because he stands behind her as she straddles Yennefer and rubs his muzzle over her shoulder, his whiskers tickling her neck, dragging his sandpapery tongue carefully across her trapezius. Tissaia tips her head back against him and pleads,

“More, I want all of you, both of you.”

In a stark reversal of roles, it is Leus who holds back, who insists on doing things properly. She stands next to Yennefer’s head, turning her to face her with a wingtip under her chin,

“Is this alright? Would you like us to stop?”

Yennefer looks down her body to where Tissaia is straddling her hips, leaning back against Daegan with a hand reaching up behind her to stroke his neck. It is different but it does not feel wrong, and the combination of both Tissaia and Leus touching her is making Yennefer feel she may burst into a thousand pieces. So, she shakes her head and leans her cheek into Leus’ feathery wing,

“Don’t stop. I want this too.”

Tissaia resumes rolling her hips, her wetness slick against Yennefer’s navel and her free hand coming between them to caress at Yennefer’s centre. Daegan lets her lean back against his body, nuzzling her occasionally and murmuring into her ear as she strokes her fingers through his fur. Leus moves further up and curls into the crook of Yennefer’s neck, running her beak through her hair and nibbling gently at her jaw. Yennefer is sure she is going to explode from this many sensations, this much _feeling_. She covers her face with her own hands for a moment to try and ground herself but Tissaia reaches for her wrists and drags them back, clamping them to her hips,

“Please. Don’t let go of me, don’t let me go.”

She repeats it over and over and Yennefer grips her hard enough to bruise in an attempt to reassure her. Unable to bear the raw vulnerability making Tissaia’s voice crack, Yennefer sits up and cups her face,

“Look at me, _ves’tacha_. I’m here, I will not let you go. I remember you.”

Tissaia nods and presses their foreheads together, Daegan still curled behind her and Leus perching on Yennefer’s shoulder. And as they rock together, tension coiling in their abdomens and gasping for breath, each looking at both their lover’s face and their own daemon, Tissaia can no longer tell where she ends and Yennefer begins. Not even the knowledge that most people are still awake and within earshot keeps them from crying out when they finish. They collapse back on the bedroll, inextricably tangled and trembling, tears on their cheeks drying almost instantly with the heat of their skin. 

The feast has quietened, and the night grown long when they at last find themselves again and are able to talk. Tissaia lifts her cheek from Yennefer’s chest and fingers the bone-handled pocketknife that had fallen from her trousers earlier,

“This is the knife you threatened me with the night we met?”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow, “You had an arrow on me lest you forget. But yes, it is the same one.”

“Would you give it to me?”

Yennefer traces lazy curlicues down Tissaia’s back as she speaks, “You can shape obsidian, what do you need an old knife for?”

Tissaia rests her chin on Yennefer’s sternum so she can look up at her, “I suppose any blade would suffice but I would like it to be yours. It will make it easier.”

Yennefer frowns, “Make what easier? Tissaia, what is this?”

“Witches do not die but they can be killed. It is not unheard of for us to take matters into our own hands when we are ready.” Yennefer’s eyes widen and she inhales to protest but Tissaia lays her fingers against her lips, “I will not live another five hundred years without you, there is nothing more life can give me after you. When your time comes, I will hold you in my arms until you have slipped away and then I will follow after you.”

Yennefer sits up, “No! I will not allow it!”

“It is not your decision to make. When you forbade me from making you forget, you demanded the right to choose your own fate. I am doing the same.”

Yennefer grits her teeth, using everything she has not to turn this into an argument. Not tonight, not after what they have shared. Tissaia senses the turmoil inside her and reaches to stroke at her clenched jaw,

“ _Duanna_ , it is my choice.”

Yennefer grips her hand tightly, “I cannot force you to live, but you will not use my knife. I will have no part in it.”

She stands and unfastens the flap, throwing the knife into the darkness. Tissaia sighs,

“I’m sorry, I should not have asked. You did not need to know what will come after you are gone.”

Yennefer kneels beside her and cups her face, searching her, “There is nothing I can say to dissuade you?”

Tissaia shakes her head and Yennefer pulls her back into an embrace, stroking down her spine again as they settle against the pillows. Yennefer warns,

“I will not stop trying to convince you.”

“I would have expected nothing less from one so stubborn. It is the way things must be however.”

“Why must they?”

Tissaia brushes some hair from Yennefer’s forehead and shushes her, “Some questions do not have answers. Sleep, _Duanna_ , the morning will bring light to dark conversations, for now only hold me?”

Leus is the last to fall asleep and she only dozes, a restless sense of foreboding keeping her awake. Which is why she is the first to hear the tell-tale whistle of a cloud-pine hovering and the soft crunch of feet landing in snow. She pokes her head out of the tent and hoots softly when she sees Kaisa and Serafina. When they step closer and the moon comes out from behind a cloud, Leus stifles a gasp at their bloody and torn appearance. She ducks back inside and nips at Tissaia to wake her, shushing her so as not to wake Yennefer and Daegan. Tissaia is still fastening her silks, her hair wild and her crown missing when she steps out of the tent. Serafina rushes towards her, pulling her away from the tents so as not to be overheard,

“The Coven has been attacked; the Taymyr clan have allied with Bolvangar. They came for us when we were unarmed, after the bread and salt.”

Tissaia looks aghast, “They desecrated guest-right? They attacked on sacred ground?”

“The Tartar humans did, the Taymyrs stood by and would not give us our weapons. It was an ambush; it was they who called the Coven was it not?” Serafina looks suddenly at Tissaia, “You knew this would happen, it is why you sent Sara Leiro on your place.”

Tissaia nods, “I was suspicious, but I never imagined they would break guest-right nor that Bolvangar were involved. Speak, child, where do we stand?”

Serafina blinks tears away, “They have taken my mother. Vanielle and Ruta Skadi also. The remaining queens march on Bolvangar with what remains of their clans. Dozens have been killed, Tissaia, I do not know how many.”

Tissaia looks towards the horizon, a steely glint in her eyes, “The time has come for a reckoning, the Magisterium has overstepped its bounds. Come, wake the clan.” She holds out a hand to give Serafina pause, “But quietly. I would not have the Gyptians drawn into this. Leave Fringilla here so she may explain things come the morning.”

Leus has been quiet but as soon as Serafina leaves she hisses, “You cannot abandon Yennefer and Daegan without so much as a goodbye!”

“They will understand, I have made no secret of my duty to my clan being sacred. We will rout these infidels, rescue our sisters and be done with it all by dawn if I have my way. We will return to them before they’ve even noticed we’re gone.”

Leus throws her a sceptical look and Tissaia sighs, “Leave them a feather if it eases you. They will know what it means.” She strokes Leus gently, “I cannot hope to succeed without you dear one, say you are with me?”

Leus flutters onto her forearm and blinks, “I am always with you.” She shakes loose a feather and hooks it into the rings that fasten the tent flap then lands on Tissaia’s shoulder, clicking her beak menacingly, “Let’s go murder some CDC bastards.”

As she retrieves her cloud-pine and crown, Tissaia catches the gleam of moonlight on something in the corner of her eye. She walks towards it and bends to pick it up from the snow. It is Yennefer’s knife. It would be easy to leave it at the tent flap for Yennefer or throw it into a lake never to be seen again, but instead Tissaia ties it to her thigh. Leus watches her with narrowed eyes but says nothing and the cold steel of it is enough to make her skin ache as she prepares to take flight. The Keitele clan take to the air as one, silent and dark, only the faintest breeze announcing that they have left. Setting her crown more securely on her brow, Tissaia does not allow herself to look back as she steers further North. 

* * * *

“Yenna! Wake up!”

Yennefer groans and flaps her hand vaguely in the direction of the noise, “Shut up Daegan, it’s barely dawn.”

Daegan snarls and bats the side of her head with his paw, “Tissaia and Leus are gone. Get up!”

Yennefer sits up and rubs her eyes, searching the tent in vain for any sign of her lover. She curses and starts pulling on clothes, stumbling over her boots and emerging from the tent only half-dressed. Daegan is sniffing round the tent for any trace of them and he grumbles when the scent is masked by dozens of other people, the snow churned up from many feet. Yennefer snatches the feather fluttering in the breeze and exclaims,

“They’re all gone, the entire clan! Something’s happened, I know it.”

A single witch appears suddenly and Yennefer scowls, she still hates that trick they have of making themselves inconspicuous. She strides over and demands,

“Where are they? Where’s Tissaia?”

“They have flown to Bolvangar. The Coven was attacked by CDC and three queens taken captive.”

“Why? Witch clans are not within the Magisterium’s jurisdiction.”

The witch is tight-lipped for a moment but sighs and replies, “They seek the Prophecy, the signs point to the child being born soon.”

Yennefer explodes, “When I ask for answers, I mean answers that make sense damn you!”

The witch’s eyes flash dangerously, and her cormorant daemon glares, “You may be the queen’s lover but insult me again, human, and I will slice your ears off!”

Daegan physically restrains Yennefer, biting onto the hem of her shirt and holding her back as she hisses and curses. He lets go suddenly and she stumbles forward as he insists,

“Enough Yenna! This does not help Tissaia!”

The witch narrows her eyes as Yennefer kicks a chunk of snow and jams her hands in her pockets, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Daegan turns to the witch,

“Please. Help us understand.”

The cormorant is the one to answer, “There is a Prophecy among witches, we hear whispers in the lights. There is a child that will change our world, who will bring the Magisterium to its knees.”

Daegan tilts his head to the side, “How?”

“It is said they will defeat Death.”

Yennefer interjects, “So, people will live forever?”

The witch gives Yennefer a knowing look, “Not in the way you are imagining. All things end.” She takes hold of her cloud-pine, “You are to return to your family, your waterways, Tissaia will find you when she has done her duty. I have done as I was asked and given you her message, now I take my leave.”

She and the cormorant fly up and away without further preamble leaving Yennefer shaking with rage and Daegan twitching his tail in consternation. Her coat still flapping open and without gloves or hood, Yennefer marches towards the sleds before Daegan can stop her.

“Yenna, you need proper clothes, you’ll freeze.”

He growls in frustration as she ignores him, so he ducks into the tent and scoops her parka into his mouth then bounds along to where she is already harnessing a team of dogs. He drops the parka on the sled and watches as Yennefer finishes buckling the huskies up and runs the reins back to the sled. She climbs onto the bench and asks,

“Aren’t you going to try and stop me rushing headlong into this?”

Daegan nudges the parka towards her, “Put that on. We _have_ to go, Tissaia needs us.”

Yennefer pulls the parka on and throws her arms round his neck, “What if we’re too late?”

Daegan leans his forehead against hers and blinks his golden eyes slowly, “We won’t be.”

He paws the snow as Yennefer whistles and the dogs start to run, the sled moving slowly at first but picking up speed until it is gliding along the snow, Daegan running alongside it, the first rays of the sun picking out the black of his fur and Yennefer’s hair. She drives the dogs hard, the wind stinging her cheeks and making her eyes water, but a rapidly growing sense of dread is fuelling her urgency. An eerie screaming drifts towards them and Yennefer, recognising it as the witches’ war-cry, snaps the reins to spur the dogs forward. They crest a hill and suddenly Bolvangar is there in all its horrid concrete, razor-wire and harsh anbaric light. The research station sits in a bowl created by the hills and peaks around it, the building at the far edge of the circumference. The ground in front of it is swarming with Tartars and witches, purple CDC uniforms and the white hoods of warrior-monks amongst the black of witch silks. The air is thick with Taymyr witches fighting the allied clans, all manner of bird-daemons whirling and screeching as they clash. From the walls, flame-throwers are causing indiscriminate havoc, burning friend and foe alike. Yennefer is known to be reckless yet even she has to swallow fear when she sees the battle unfolding. But Tissaia is somewhere in that carnage so Yennefer grits her teeth and urges the dogs on, sloping down the hill in the hope that everyone is too busy to notice her. They have not made it more than halfway down into the bowl when a flaming sphere hits the snow, sizzling for a moment before exploding and throwing the sled off its runners before splintering it into kindling. Yennefer somersaults in mid-air and lands face-first in a snowdrift, her arms over her head to shield herself from the debris of wood and rawhide that rains down. The dogs are howling but alive and she cuts them loose hoping they have the good sense to turn tail and run. Daegan is already on his feet and runs up to her,

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, nothing broken.”

“We’re never going to find her in all this!”

They do not get the chance to make a better plan however as a warrior-monk suddenly appears screaming and whirling his flaming sword, the Magisterium chain round his neck glinting in the firelight.

“Abominations! Thy will be done, Almighty!”

His white robes turn crimson as Daegan claws him from navel to throat, the cold rage in his eyes reminiscent of his massacre on the causeway. Yennefer clutches at him as his paws drip blood onto the snow,

“Daegan, you don’t have to, I know you hate it.”

He turns to her, “They do not get to hurt you. And they do not get to hurt Tissaia or Leus. I will not allow it; they may choose to step aside but they will not step past me.”

Yennefer kisses him and jams her hat tighter onto her head, reaching for the still-burning sword,

“Come then.”

She does not try to wield the weapon with any skill or grace, but swings it back and forth as though it were one of her cudgels, bludgeoning with the flat edge just as often as she slices with the sharp. They have just escaped a monk with a double-bladed axe when a grey shape swoops down towards them. Daegan cries out,

“Leus!”

The owl recognises them, horror and love filling her eyes simultaneously. She swerves to reach them, but a stray arrow catches her in a wing, and she falters, fluttering haphazardly to the ground. Yennefer catches her and cradles her,

“Yennefer… you should not be here.”

“Leus, we had to come. I am yours; you are mine.”

Daegan ushers them towards some boulders, the three of them crouching out of sight to gain a moment’s respite. The owl hisses as Yennefer inspects her wing, “Leave it! I’ll live, it’s only a graze. You must find Tissaia, she’s inside somewhere. They took her, chained her. She sent me away, I should never have left her.”

Daegan nuzzles at her, “You were right to, how else would you fetch help?”

Leus croons as his whiskers tickle her then insists, “Leave me here, I’ll be fine. You must get to Tissaia before they…”

“We’re not leaving you alone, you’ll come with us!”

The Gyptian picks her up again but Leus screams in pain at the movement. Yennefer looks at Daegan in desperation,

“She can’t move but we have to find Tissaia.”

Daegan nods as though deciding something for himself then replies, “You go. I will stay here with Leus.”

Yennefer gasps in horror, “We can’t, we mustn’t, I couldn’t bear it!”

Daegan smiles and places a paw against her heart, “I will still be yours afterwards, we cannot ever be truly apart. You will find Tissaia and I will protect Leus.”

Yennefer chokes back a sob and buries her face in his neck, inhaling the warm scent of his fur. He purrs and hooks his head over her shoulder, snuffling at her hair. She lets him go and starts to walk away, clutching at her chest with the pain. It is awful but every time she stumbles and almost turns back, she feels Daegan urging her onwards, looking after her even as he suffers himself. She begins to feel as though she is in a sort of trance, people seem to sidestep her, paying her no attention and she panics thinking she is already dead and become a ghost. But an errant ember hits the back of her neck and scorches her, the pain confirming she is very much alive. Perhaps it is having no visible daemon that makes her inconsequential like a chair or a curtain. Whatever has caused it, she makes quick use of her stealth, picking her way towards the gates and sneaking into the station unnoticed.

* * * *

Tissaia tries not to look at Sabrina’s body in the cell across from her. Her hawk-daemon is long gone and Serafina is the new Enara queen though she does not know it yet. Their captors are taking the witches one at a time and returning with their bodies, leaving them in the cells to discomfit those still living. Vanielle’s screams are echoing through the corridors and Ruta starts rattling the bars of her cell with rage, her sabre-fang tiara lopsided and gap-toothed after the fighting. The screams stop abruptly and Tissaia watches the main door with apprehension. It creaks open and a hulking Tartar comes in dragging Vanielle behind him, her sparrow-daemon nowhere to be seen. The priest with the white snake daemon comes next and Tissaia feels her stomach clench at the memories he conjures, his lips curling horribly when he recognises her. The last to enter is a beautiful young woman and Tissaia cannot help but stare at her. Stare in awe at her beauty and in horror at the malevolent gleam in her daemon’s eye, a golden-haired monkey with sinewy black paws and a cruel face. The woman points lazily at Ruta,

“Take that one next. She looks half-dead already so it will be over quickly either way.”

Ruta spits and curses as she is dragged away, her bluethroat Sergei chirping indignantly as he is clamped in the guard’s hand. Tissaia shouts after them,

“Hold fast! They will not break us!”

The woman turns her pretty eyes on Tissaia and comes slowly towards her, placing her finger gently under her chin,

“You will tell me everything eventually. I find myself personally invested in your Prophecy and I always, _always_ , get what I want.”

She smiles beautifully but the monkey chatters maliciously and Tissaia shivers, immensely relieved when they turn and leave. Alone in the cells with two bodies and no daemon, Tissaia tries not to cry with loneliness. Ruta holds out longer than the other two but she too starts to scream, and the sounds give Tissaia the resolve to act. She twists awkwardly, the chains round her ankles clinking, until she can reach Yennefer’s knife still hidden under her silks. Her hands are trembling so badly, she has to open it with her teeth and the steel is cold on her lips, but the bone handle soon warms in her palm and she runs her thumb over it, the rhythm back-and-forth settling her. Tissaia cannot help a bitter laugh at the irony. She has spent so long preparing to die after Yennefer that she has never considered dying before her. All her notions of gallant romanticism thrown into her face and a stark question – will she take her life honourably and dutifully in a noble sacrifice when Yennefer is still alive? And although she wavers momentarily, she knows the answer already. The witch-queen has never shied away from difficult choices, has always followed her conscience above all else, even her heart. The Magisterium will not use her in their fight, she will not be a pawn in their game. And so, after straightening her silks and aligning her crown, using the small bone-handled knife with meticulous symmetry, Tissaia de Vries slits the arteries in both wrists.

Yennefer will never understand how she found her way through Bolvangar nor how she managed to do so undiscovered. Following nothing but her instinct she finds herself in what can only be described as a prison, rows of cells lining the corridor and awful screams echoing off the concrete. Gripping the flaming sword tighter, she opens the first door she finds that is unlocked and recoils at the two bodies she sees on the left-hand side, neither one a witch she recognises but their silks and crowns marking them as queens. Her voice scratchy with trepidation, Yennefer calls softly,

“Tissaia?”

A moan comes from the cells on the right-hand side, obscured by the door that Yennefer is pressed against. She steps further into the room and cries out, the sword clattering to the floor as she rushes to the cell where Tissaia is sat slumped against the wall, her hands limp at her sides each resting in a little pool of blood.

“Tissaia! No, no, no! What have you done?”

Yennefer fumbles with the lock, cursing her trembling hands as she picks it with the bloody knife. Tissaia watches her and mumbles,

“I would not have had you see this, _Duanna_. This is not a memory I would give you.”

The lock finally clicks, and Yennefer yanks the gate open, kneeling next to Tissaia and clamping her hands round her wrists.

“You’re going to be fine; I’ve got you now. We’re going to get out of here together.”

Tissaia lifts her head a little, grimacing as though even this small movement costs her greatly, “Where is Daegan?”

Yennefer flicks her eyes away, biting her lower lip at the grief, “He stayed with Leus, she couldn’t move. We had to sep-, separate.” She shudders at the word and Tissaia’s eyes fill with tears,

“Oh Yennefer…”

“Don’t look at me like that! Don’t pity me, we did it for _you_ , so that we could find you.” She speaks more insistently as Tissaia’s eyes start to glaze, “That is why you’re going to stay, you can’t leave us, not after everything that’s happened. Tissaia, please!”

“I won’t be leaving you, Yennefer, I’ll be there waiting to bring you home. The wind and the stars remember?”

“But what if that’s not what happens? What if we die and we float up and become something new, somewhere else? What if I get lost on the way?”

Tissaia uses the last of her strength to lean her forehead against Yennefer’s, “Whichever world, whatever time, I will always find you _Duanna_.”

Tissaia grows limp and Yennefer gives up on her wrists, throwing her arms round her instead, cradling her and tears leaking out of her eyes into Tissaia’s dark hair. And even though Yennefer knows Tissaia can’t hear her anymore she can’t stop whispering over and over,

“You can’t go, stay, please. Tissaia, I love you; you mustn’t go. _Ves’tacha_ …”

Yennefer does not know how long she has sat in the cold cell with Tissaia lifeless in her arms before she hears another scream, more desperate than before. She counts only two queens in the cells beside Tissaia and the moody cormorant witch had said three were taken. Pressing a kiss to Tissaia’s cheek, Yennefer lays her carefully on the ground, tucking her silks neatly round her and folding her hands on her chest. It is almost as much of a wrench to leave her as it was to leave Daegan, but Yennefer harnesses the rage that is building inside of her, letting it burn hot and fierce. She picks up the sword again and kicks over the barrel of pitch that the guards use to seal amputations so that prisoners do not die before they have given up their secrets. Standing in the doorway Yennefer removes her hat and addresses the three women in the cells,

“ _Thoir an taigh a-mach slàn, mo bhanrighrean_. May you reach home safely, my queens.”

She thrusts the flaming sword into the pitch, and it catches instantaneously, setting the whole room alight. With a grim look on her face, Yennefer kicks the door shut then turns with her sword raised, running towards the screams. The priest is the first to burn, his robes catching before he even registers Yennefer has stormed into the room. The guard holding the glowing tongs clutches at his slit throat, his blood mingling with Tissaia’s dried onto the blade which Yennefer now holds in her other hand. Ruta Skadi strangles the remaining guard with her chains, a dark joy in her face as she chokes the life from him. When he slumps to the floor she turns to Yennefer,

“The others?”

“Dead.”

“Then we must leave while we can.”

“You go. I’m going to burn this place to the ground first.”

Ruta reaches for her hand, “Take care you do not burn yourself also, Yennefer of the _North Wind_ , there is yet life to be lived for you.”

Then, she releases Sergei from his cage, and they make their escape, Yennefer watching them go then walking unhurriedly down the halls, setting anything and anyone in her path alight, leaving a growing inferno behind her. When she finds the barrels of blackpowder just within the main gate she could almost believe in Divine Providence were she not fighting on the wrong side of the Almighty. She tosses the sword and runs, the blast moments later sending her tumbling through the air for the second time that day. The battle has ended, the final guards and monks being herded by grim-faced witches, the CDC faltering as their stronghold turns into a pile of burning rubble. Marissa Coulter grips the scruff of her daemon’s neck, the monkey squirming with pain, watching it all from her vantage point high up on the slopes. She promises herself she will rebuild Bolvangar, the work will continue. And she is true to her word. It will take over a decade, but the station and its research will be restored.

Serafina Pekkala finds Yennefer kneeling in the snow, staring at the burning building, the flames casting flickering shadows over face.

“Yennefer?”

The Gyptian turns to her with dull, hollow eyes, “She is dead. Tissaia, your mother, all of them.”

“Ruta made it out, thanks to you.” Serafina steps closer, tentatively reaching to lay a hand on Yennefer’s shoulder, “Yennefer, where is Daegan?”

Yennefer replies monotonously, “We separated. He stayed to protect Leus. I don’t know where he is now.”

Kaisa nods at Serafina’s unspoken instructions and flies off to search for him as the witch tries to bring Yennefer back from the edge.

“Yennefer, Tissaia would not have wanted you to give up, to stop living. Please, let us bring you home, tend your wounds, you need time to grieve.”

Yennefer lets Serafina lift her to her feet, lets her guide her towards the remaining witches and does not protest when they bundle her in furs and debate which clan should take her. The Keiteles want her but the Enara home ground is closer and eventually Sara Leiro allows Serafina to assume responsibility for her. A hush falls over the group when Kaisa reappears with a limping Daegan following him. He crouches next to where Yennefer is huddled and mewls softly,

“Yenna?”

Yennefer looks up and cups his face, “She’s gone, Daegan. Tissaia…”

“I know. Leus vanished from in between my paws. I was holding her like she always enjoys and then she just…wasn’t there.”

He sounds more bewildered than grief-stricken and Yennefer aches to think of how he will suffer when it finally sinks in. For now, she wraps her arms round his neck and starts to cry as he curls himself round her, a melancholy keening sound rising through the smoke as the witches mourn their dead.

* * * *

Yennefer shrinks at the bustle of Novy Odense. After nearly a moon with only the witches and the wind as her companions, the noise and heat of humanity feels foreign to her. She almost turns tail and runs but Serafina holds her steady.

“It is time to return, Yennefer.”

They walk together to the Consul’s office, Yennefer still in the dark as to why Serafina has insisted she join the queen on her visit. Dr Lanselius ushers them both inside and shakes Yennefer’s hand solemnly,

“I grieve for your loss, if there is anything I can do, you must let me know. Tissaia was always kind to me, especially as a young man new to my role. She will be sorely missed.”

He leads them to a room with floor-to-ceiling shelves, little glass jars lining the walls, a sprig of cloud-pine inside each one and a neat label affixed. Dr Lanselius sees Yennefer staring and explains,

“Every witch queen gives the Consul a piece of their cloud-pine so we may contact them if need be. You are familiar with the summoning properties of the branches, I assume?”

Yennefer nods and scans the rows for Tissaia’s name. Serafina hands over a fragment of her branch and watches as the Consul bottles and labels it. He clears his throat and reads from a scroll,

“You, Serafina Pekkala, are now officially registered as the queen of the Lake Enara clan, subject to the terms of the pact agreed between the witches of the North and the Magisterium. May your reign be long and peaceful.”

He puts the scroll away and smiles, “Now that that piece of bureaucracy is out of the way, allow me to congratulate you personally.” Serafina holds out her hand and he gives a little bow, kissing the back of it. “Now, all that remains is to return your mother’s branch.” He glances at Yennefer, “And Tissaia’s.”

Yennefer raises her eyebrows, “You’re giving it to me? What of Sara Leiro?”

Serafina explains, “It is returned to family, not the successor. Tissaia asked that hers be given to you.” She crosses to the fireplace and kisses the sprig from Sabrina’s branch before tossing it into the flames, “We usually burn them, but you may do as you see fit.”

Yennefer pulls the twig from the jar and cups it in her palm, barely enough to fill her hand but fresh and vibrant, still as alive as when Tissaia had flown it. A wonderful thought suddenly occurs and Yennefer grips it, closing her eyes and searching, waiting. When she opens them again, she sees Serafina looking at her with a sad, knowing look,

“It does not work that way, Yennefer. Nothing can summon those who have died.”

Yennefer still tucks it into her pocket though, unable to burn the last tangible piece of Tissaia, just as she has not let the feather that was stuck in their tent-flap out of her sight since the battle. It does not escape her that she is once again using the twig and feather as talismans, but she cannot stop herself from believing something will come of it. She leaves the North the next day, booking passage on a galley. Sara Leiro and Serafina come to wave her off, Sara handing her something wrapped in black silk as she says farewell. Standing on the deck, Yennefer pulls the silk aside to reveal a conch-shell, big as her hand and glowing white. The shell she keeps, putting it with the feather in her knapsack. But she throws her knife into the sea, Daegan standing on his hind legs with his forepaws on the side to watch as the blade sinks below the surface. Yennefer tilts her hat back to watch the snowy peaks receding as they travel further South and strokes his ears,

“Daegan?”

“Hmmm?”

“Will we ever see them again?”

“I hope so, Yenna.”


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years later...  
> Yennefer goes North one last time.  
> Warning: Depicts death of major character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this goes some way to mending any broken hearts...

Istredd rubs his eyes and lights another lantern against the darkness that has been near-constant since the rain began, the swollen river reflecting the sullen grey sky. Thankfully, extra naphtha and firewood are luxuries afforded the Master of Jordan College, so he is warm and dry where many are not. The pile of objects sits on his desk in much the same order as it had arrived in two weeks ago. An odd assortment of mementos that he still cannot join the dots between. The diary is self-explanatory, the pages filled with scrawled tales of witches, bears, boats and fires. The feather and twig nestle in the curve of the white conch shell and the curious pane of sea-glass casts coloured light across it all. The letter is already creased from his constant unfolding and folding of it, he knows the contents by heart at this point, but he cannot help reading it again.

_Dear Izz,_

_I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get over myself and write to you. I wanted to send you this because I need it to be looked after, to be somewhere people will read it and learn from it. It’s all explained in the book so I won’t go into details here but long story short, I had some adventures that were in danger of being forgotten so I wrote them down before they slipped away. I’m glad too because the last few months I’ve had to read them over and over, it’s as though there’s a fog in my mind that keeps covering them up. But maybe it’s just old age! I’m going away for a while, going North, and I wasn’t sure when I’d come back so I thought ‘who better than Istredd to take care of a story?’._

_I hope you don’t resent any of what you read and that you found happiness. And I know you’ll call it superstitious nonsense, but the Gyptians are all agreed – there is a storm coming, a flood. The river isn’t happy, and it won’t be tamed much longer. Bar your doors and stock up. The Gyptians are going further South, all the way to the estuary to wait it out. I said my goodbyes to them only yesterday, but it already feels so long ago…_

_Take care of yourself,_

_Yenna._

Merle ruffles herself and tilts her head to the side, “Someone’s coming.”

Istredd scoffs, “Don’t be silly, no one is foolish enough to brave this weather. The river is running past our front door.”

The pounding on said door comes moments later and Merle look smug. Istredd grumbles and makes his way from the Master’s chambers, clutching his academic robes tight against the cold. When he opens the door, water sloshes into the hallways of Jordan College. He squints into the dark and exclaims,

“Asriel! Can that be you?”

And before Istredd has a chance to protest, a babe is thrust into his arms and given Scholastic Sanctuary, that protection and a strange-looking compass all she has to her name.

* * * *

Yennefer makes the last bit of her journey on foot even though it takes her ages, and she is wheezing by the time they reach the slopes. The Keiteles had offered to bring her to the lake but she had politely declined. This walk was one she had to do alone. Not that she is ever truly alone, she thinks, as Daegan nudges the back of her knees to spur her on up the slope.

“Come on, anyone would think you were an old woman.”

“Says you with more white fur than black at this point.”

Daegan assumes a pious expression, “It makes me look dignified.”

Yennefer chuckles as they reach the crest of the slope, the lake glimmering in the distance. The last time they had visited it they had flown but it will take them most of the day to reach it on foot. It is spring however and the days are long and bright, so the sun has only just started to sink in the West when they reach the pebbled shore. Yennefer builds a fire in the shelter of some large boulders, but she does not stack extra firewood to the side as she would normally. This fire will not need to last the night. When the flames are crackling contentedly and her bedroll is laid, Yennefer settles back against Daegan’s flank and eats the apple she’d brought. They sit in companiable silence until Daegan sniffs the air and asks,

“Are you sure you got the dates right?”

“Yes! Every twelve years she said, and it’s been twenty-four since so it must be the right time.”

Even Yennefer has begun to doubt herself however as they wait and wait whilst the sky stays dark and empty. But then, tentatively glimmering at first, the Aurora starts to flicker and spill across the sky. The lights dance and swirl, greens and blues at turns pearly and vibrant, streaks of red here and there as the ripples fold and tumble.

“It’s beautiful, Daegan!”

Daegan nods and snuggles tighter against her, his eyelids drooping slightly. “I’m sorry Yenna, I’m tired.”

She kisses him and wipes a tear away, “It’s alright Daegan. We’re both tired. We can watch them until we fall asleep though.”

As the lights burn even brighter and the witches’ song starts up, Yennefer sighs and lets her eyes close. The Gyptian and the big black cat sleep soundly even as a wind picks up and blows the dwindling fire out. And, as it breezes past the two of them Daegan dissipates like smoke, the wind carrying them up and away.

_“The advancements in our understanding of Dust that followed in the wake of Lord Asriel’s now infamous ‘breaching of the veil’, have shaped the latest schools of thought concerning the afterlife. The role of Dust combined with the windows into other worlds raises the intriguing possibility that a person could die in our world, their soul and their daemon becoming one with the atmosphere as Dust, and then pass through a window into another world entirely. Which begs the question, were we to find ourselves in a new world, a new time, would we still be the same person? Would events and customs dictate our fate or are we forever stuck in our own loop of destiny, regardless of when and where?”_

~Excerpt from _The Philosopher Scientist_ , by Dr Mary Malone ~

* * * *

Tissaia coughs as the smoke from Yennefer’s inferno catches the back of her throat, compounded by the dimeritium pervading her lungs. A cold panic grips her and she shouts insistently. She cannot lose Yennefer now. Not after they have finally found one another, although Tissaia cannot explain why she feels this. They have known each other almost a hundred years, how can it be that the last few days have felt like meeting someone entirely new? She has seen so many facets to Yennefer’s character that she would never have expected. The steady calm she had displayed while commanding from the tower, the determined protective instincts for those weaker than herself, the playful edge to her teasing as they had drunk ale on the wall. And then the overwhelming devotion and love that had flowed through her thoughts as she’d pressed her forehead against Tissaia’s. It is as though there is a part of Yennefer that has been hidden, only now revealing itself. And Tissaia is drawn to it, inexplicably and undeniably drawn.

Yennefer groans and shifts on the muddy ground where she had collapsed as the last of the Chaos ripped through her. She does not know how she was able to direct the flames around Tissaia so as not to kill her. But she knows it was by choice, she made the decision to save her. Because she is finally, _finally_ , able to see beyond the cold façade the arch-mage maintains. She has always been drawn to Tissaia but never before has she been glad of it. It had been wonderous watching the Rectoress slowly unfurl and open to her. It had begun in Rinde, but Yennefer had been too bitter and caught up in herself to see it. And the past few days have only made Tissaia more beautifully complex in Yennefer’s eyes. The strident, opiniated, passionate way she had addressed the Conclave, all thoughts of decorum and diplomacy gone. That deep, gleeful chuckle that had bubbled out of her as they pretended Vilgefortz stood any chance of bedding her. The defiant rage that had been in her usually stony gaze as she’d watched Fringilla’s fog descend on the keep. And the warmth, the unrestrained tender warmth. It as though there is a part of Tissaia that has been hidden, only now revealing itself. And Yennefer is drawn to it, inexplicably and undeniably drawn.

Tissaia finds her and kneels beside her, stroking back her hair, searching for breath. And she cries when she feels it hot against her palm, a little shallow and ragged but there all the same. Yennefer mumbles something and Tissaia leans closer to hear it, straining over the din of horse-hooves and clinking armour as the Northern Kingdoms approach.

“I knew it would be you who found me.”

Tissaia pulls off her gloves so she can feel Yennefer’s skin beneath hers as she cups her face, “I will always find you.”

Yennefer swallows and rasps, her eyes fluttering open to lock with Tissaia’s, “Some people cannot be forgotten.”

And although it should make no sense whatsoever, Tissaia knows exactly what she means and why she is saying it. She cannot explain how she knows it. Only that it feels like she has heard it before.


End file.
